Predicting A Riot
by Cansei de Ser Sexy
Summary: Back in Gotham, tagged with Valerie, Bruce thought everything would go back to normal—their normal, but he has never been that lucky. When the sins of past resurface, a Wrath will stir in the heart of men. Sequel to Crossing the Rubicon.
1. Part I-I

_Hello, here it is; I'm starting. First things first; this is the sequel to Crossing the Rubicon, so if you haven't read it, most probably you won't understand this._

 _The story starts nine months after the finale of Rubicon, so it makes it approx. 14 months after the Dark Knight. At the end of the chapter, I will make a brief timeline to make sure about the time slots._

* * *

 **Predicting a Riot**

"A riot is the language of the unheard." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

 **Prologue: "The War Starts"**

* * *

 _October, 2009_

Two men stood in the darkened alley; true to the oldest game, under cloak and daggers. The older one had his figure covered with a dark trench coat, his collars pulled up against the hard October wind. His eyes were an electrical blue that suggested a keen interest together with a daring vanity, but the rest of his features were hid under his bowler hat. He had concealed his identity well, the old man knew, covered his unease with a décor of aloofness, but still he knew the taciturn man in front of him could read him like an open book.

He had no name, not that he would find out. He, however, had a code name, and the way he acted was suggesting that he would never need anything else. Perhaps there was a time the contract killer had a name for himself, too, but that must be a long time ago. Now, he was simply called—the Wrath.

For a moment, the old man wished they hadn't personally made a contact. Even looking at him made him feel dirty but somehow the man had insisted. He wasn't sure why, and he didn't like that. They had made the first contact at somewhere called in deep web under trusted alias. His partner had directed him, but now he was starting to question his partner's integrity; something he possibly shouldn't do. His partner had showed him a path to fight back. He would never forget that.

The contract killer broke the silence, his voice monotone, and cold, his words spoken with a deliberate, carefully adjusted projection, words were just serving their purpose, and nothing more. "The list, please," he demanded.

He held out a folded paper. "The half of it, as we agreed," the old man said, "The rest of it after the job is done."

With a swift but quick movement, the paper was taken out of his fingers and vanished under his dark long coat. "The target?" he demanded the next.

The old man hesitated, his fingers tightened around the dossier he was holding in his other hand. They had never been close, yes, they had never been truly enemies, either. Sometimes things had gone bad with them, but it wasn't personal. Wayne Enterprises' boards meetings were a hard place conduit business without breaking a few hearts.

 _But this's a war,_ he reminded himself, and as his partner said, one must have the courage to do all that was necessary, to win.

The old man held out the dossier.

* * *

 **Part I:**

 **Part I.I — "A New Beginning"**

* * *

In the deserted parts of the Narrows the night was aging. Crouched motionlessly in his post at the rooftop, Batman watched the three men as they painted a stylized Circle-A over a filthy wall. Their faces were covered with Guy Fawkes masks, only the smiles over the masks were a red one.

Under his cowl, Bruce's eyebrows tightened as his lips turned into a grimmer scowl. One of them started spraying a template under the infamous icon, then they stepped back in order to control their handiwork.

Bruce read the black script, _Our voice will be heard._ _Say no to Act 1010._

His suspicions confirmed, Bruce opened his arms to the sides. The memory cloth energized quickly under his glove. Not wasting any time, Bruce dived in the sky. His trajectory lenses focused on the men, he landed softly behind them.

Closer to his targets, he saw the men weren't exactly men but merely teenagers, high school kids from the slums of Gotham.

The Unheards... The first time Batman had crossed paths with them was a month ago; graffiti over a poster of the Gotham's newly elected Mayor, Rupert Elliot. The man's face was covered with the Circle-A, and it wasn't an uncommon thing in Gotham, the symbol of anarchism had been decorating the Narrows' walls for years. No, what had gained Batman's attention had been the smile over the Mayor's face. It was scarred, running one cheek to another, blood red; the Joker's identical smile.

Below, another phrase was scripted, _the way is anarchy_ , _join up. Together we stand, divided we fall._ And under the slogan, there was it; the Unheards.

Just school kids...becoming groupies of the Joker like a rock star.

His scowl deepened further. He must be doing something wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Even the behind bars, in his straight jacket, the Clown was stirring up his city. His eyes skipped toward the script over the wall. _Say no to Act 1010._

The Act 1010; the act that would enable the Gotham Court of Appeals to pass the capital punishment as penalty. Mostly to condemn the Joker to a death sentence. Mentally, he shook his head, focusing on what was needed to be done. That was politics that Batman couldn't interfere. His duty was to his city.

"Drop the paint," he rasped behind the teenagers but didn't take the action. It was best not to make these young people more furious with the...order of the things. The teenagers swiveled back at the same time, their faces bearing the same expression, eyes wide open, mouths agape.

The cans of their paints dropped on the concrete pavement, scattering along the road, then the panic faded as the understanding grew in their eyes. With a fleeting look at each other, they turned and started running away.

Bruce looked at their backs, his eyes darkening more. This would be a problem. "Alfred—" he called his former guardian, turning to walk away into the alley where he had parked the Batpod, "Call Valerie," he ordered. Tonight she had said she had a _survey_ to make and Bruce knew she was out again for a date to collect data...for her new...look. She had been in Gotham two months, after her operation nine months ago, but she was still collecting data to prove that no one would think her as Cameron Reese.

Though, her results weren't making her feel any better, either. When no one recognized her, she also grew...hard to deal. A couple of times, he had assured her she hadn't changed that much, that they couldn't recognize her because Cameron in manners and looks didn't look anything like Valerie even before the operation, and she still looked same, but his words had only frustrated her further.

But he hadn't lied. The changes weren't big; her sharp features had just softened a bit more, her nose a bit more rounded, but to him, she was still the same woman he had been with in a backseat—he abruptly stopped his thoughts.

"I want to know how many graffiti like this are being made in the city," he rasped stiffly, climbing to the Batpod, "Start a search throughout all Gotham streets via satellite."

"Yes, sir," Alfred answered, "I'm passing her a cable."

He ran the Batpod's motor, but then heard the sirens, from the north, just how Gordon had warned him before.

The new SRT that was set to catch Batman; a joint-up effort between FBI, ATF, and GCPD. A month ago, the task force had been finally ordered, and Gordon couldn't drag his feet any longer. The Mayor had made two promises in his campaign in the elections; first, sending the Joker to gallows, and second, catching the Batman.

And, apparently, both of those promises were going to be a problem.

He listened to the sirens for a fraction, then leaning down over the bike, he launched into darkened streets, toward the closest bridge. Better to pass the bridge before the Air Cavalry arrived to the scene.

Tonight was going to be a long one.

* * *

In the Irish pub she chose for her...date, the talks were the same like in the others; the small talks in Gotham weren't about weather, super bowl, or the last episode of Lost anymore, but the protesters at the streets, Say No to Act 1010 Campaign, and the general unease the city had been having since the Joker's Reign of Terror.

Valerie wasn't surprised, the Joker had left his marks deeply. No one would know that better than her. Her eyes skid toward the mirror at the opposite side of the bar where she sat sipping through her club soda. "The new her"-softened features, her darkened hair cropped just over neck, barely touching her shoulders. Yes, she had cut her hair, too, why she didn't know. She thought it would have gone better with her new look but she had already started regretting her decision. She couldn't even remember the last time she had hair this short.

But Christian, gentle hands, delicate fingers had done his job well. There wasn't any scar over her skin, not at the places anyone would see, herself included. The change was subtle, more like her demeanor, the air of her, something that hadn't gotten neither Bruce nor Alfred bat an eye yet looking at her, but to the man sitting next to her, she was a total stranger. Had she really changed that much that the man with who she had spent five months in the same office didn't even have at least the courtesy to say that she looked—familiar from somewhere? He had asked her out for a drink once, for god's sake!

Pissed, her eyes shifted to him, and she shot at him a dark look, but he didn't say anything, because he was busy laughing to something the man next to him had said. God, her night possibly wouldn't get any worse.

Letting out a silent sigh, she brought back the soda to her lips, and took a little sip, her eyes suddenly drawing toward the liquor over the bar. She snapped her eyes away, grimacing. She knew she shouldn't be bothered by it, shouldn't _let_ it bother her, that was her plan after all, becoming someone that no one would recognize, and she had drawn Cameron Reese very different from her street smart self, strategically had made Cameron always vanishing in the background, but still...

She shook her head. She was a new person now, with a surname and all; Valerie West, after the Wicked Witch of West, her own inner joke, something only Bruce had gotten.

As her thoughts turned to him, his date suddenly exclaimed beside her, shaking his head at the TV. "That prick!" he bellowed, taking his sip from his beer, "I can't take this guy," he grunted.

Valerie lifted her head at TV and looked at the activist over the screen, a lawyer from the Anti-Dent Platform, Derrick Malkin. The man had already entered in the Bruce's radar, as well as he was also rumored to be a mob lawyer, but Valerie had her doubts. "Well, Vicki," Malkin told to the hostess of the nighttime talk show, "You know the way to get rid of gnats isn't killing them, but drying off the swamp," he said, "Even when the Joker is dead, this city's problem won't end. The Dent Act isn't doing any good—"

"Tea party claims different," Vicki said, with a sneer, "States the statics are dropping since the last year."

Malkin shook his head, "Look at the trends, they're already started rising again, life always adapts, and marks are adding up with no parole. Now it might look like an improvement, but after ten years, when most of these guys are out, and with no hope for a normal life anymore, and a stigma blended on their forehead, Gotham will have it even worse."

Valerie knew the man was right; the Dent Act wasn't drying off the swamp, but only killing off the—gnats. But the problems were still there; the Pareto analysis of the city was rocketed in the sky, the ninety of Gotham's wealth was being held by the privileged ten percent of the populace, and the crème da le crème, _one_ percent of the ten was holding the seventy percent of the total wealth, despite the fact that one percent had Bruce Wayne among them.

The inequality of wealth among the citizen, toppled by the fact the ghettos of the city harbored the forty percent of the populace, despite geographically covering only the ten percent of the Gotham's soil, created the simple fact that everyone knew; Gotham was a buzzing hive of scum and vileness that spawned its own criminals on the most basic conditions.

"Well, I don't see anything wrong in what he says," she told to her date.

The man's expression soured as if he had eaten something rotten. "Oh, please, don't tell me you're one of them—" he said with frustration, driving his head backward.

Her eyes narrowed, as she looked at him coldly. "One of what?" she rasped.

He looked at her, understanding that he was pissing her a great deal, and perhaps because he realized he was being a prick, or perhaps because he was hoping for some action tonight, he quickly relented, and smiled at her. "Never mind," he said, and moved closer, "Are you sure you don't want anything—harder?" he asked, his look skipping toward her glass then back at her eyes.

She almost rolled her eyes. She brought the glass to her lips, "No, I'm fine. I'm having my smooth days." She took another sip, her eyes drawing toward the mirror again, and she looked at her smoothed features. She _really_ didn't look that different, and she wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or not.

"That's a pity," the man murmured under his breath, and she decided she was already bored with him.

Her PI Exam was scheduled tomorrow afternoon. Instead of wasting time with the idiot here, she'd better go and study Bruce's notes. If she flunked another time... she chased the thought away. She _was_ going to pass. The first time was one time failure. It was understandable she had gotten stressed. She had _never_ taken a test to attain anything all in her life before. She had just faked things when she needed something. Well, not this time. This time, for the first time in her life, she was going to get something like the other people did. This was a new her, and a new life; and in this new life she had decided to be a private detective, and she was not going to goddamn fake it.

It had seemed to her like a good plan. She had thought it first in Bolivia after the operation, when Bruce had come to her for a quick visit after her bandages had taken off, and her face had become something—decent to look at, and they had discussed about the cover identities for her eventual return, but nothing had seemed good enough.

Bruce had suggested that she might have tried again to be a lawyer in the Wayne Enterprises, but she had declined. First, it was a bit too dangerous, second, she didn't like being a lawyer, and third, she hated pencil skirts.

Bruce then had suggested to being his secretary, and she had only looked at him, but hadn't dignified the suggestion with an answer.

No, it had to be something else. Something else that made would make her connected to him in the daily life, but still wouldn't make her feel alienating from herself, something she would really like to be... Then it hit her, like a crystal bullet.

A private detective...she could be her own, doing researches Bruce asked from her with a good pretense, and also hired by Wayne Enterprises so that she would have a good reason to hang around Bruce Wayne, being _his_ PI.

Certainly better than being his PA. Only she hadn't passed the test for the license the first time.

With a mental sigh, she jumped off from her stool, placing a bill under her glass. "Well, I'm off," she said, "good night."

"Wait—" he called after her. She turned. "Can I have your number?" he asked.

She clicked her tongue, and shook her head, apologetically, "That's not a very good idea," she said, then smiled, "You see, my boyfriend—"

The man gaped at her. "You have a boyfriend?"

Well, she didn't, but who cares? She wasn't still going to sleep with him. Another thing this new her was trying not to do... She opened her mouth, but before she could say something, Derrick Malkin and Vicki Vale vanished off the TV in front of her, and in their place came—

Suddenly out of breath, her heart in her throat, she looked at the TV— "After a long while, Batman sighted again in the Narrows tonight—" She started at the screen as Bruce over the Batpod led a long and crowded cortege on the road, sirens screeching, the Air Cav. flying over the top of his head in the air that was painted red and blue with the police lights.

How...? She asked herself blankly... How they could find him? He had the whole Gotham Police Department tracking with his donation of cell phones. How he could not notice a task force this massive coming to him? It made no sense.

There must be some logical explanation, because even Bruce Wayne wouldn't be _that_ stupid. Letting out a frustrated grunt, she stormed out of the pub.

As she ran to her Honda, she called Bruce. "What happened—?" she asked in as soon as he opened up their radio link, her ears full with the interference as he possibly drove at a maddening speed. Her tone took a notch on frustration, "Why the hell the whole GCPD is after you?"

"Valerie—" he breathed out over the interference, "That's not—"

"Why didn't you see them?" she asked, cutting him off, starting the motor, "What happened to the trackers?"

"They don't have any tracker," came the answer in a rasped breath.

"What do you mean they don't have any tracker?" she cried back, taking the car out of the curb.

"They're not GCPD," he responded matter-of-factly, "FBI and ATF—" his voice vanished under a sudden a booming sound, as he probably had made himself a _new_ road, blowing up stuff on his way, then she heard him again, "Gordon couldn't hold them back anymore."

Driving at the top speed toward the high road, it took a second to digest what he had told her. The next second, she screamed, "You KNEW they were out?!" The silence answered her. "Bruce Wayne, are you fucking insane?"

Again silence, then another booming sound exploded in her ears, and she picked up the sirens, coming from to her left side. "I'm coming to you," she hissed out.

"No," he ordered quickly, "Stay on the route," he ordered, "Go to the bunker."

"Bunker?" she asked, "What the hell I'm going to do in the bunker?"

Another boom followed before he rasped, "I _am_ going to bunker."

Oh. "The manor is too far away," he explained fast, the interference even louder this time, "The protesters were gathering at the south entrance of the Central Park tonight, and the police were setting the perimeters."

And the protesters would start rioting as soon as they saw a task force, coming to them. Cunning bastard. He was a damn strategist, and ever the precautious one, but still... He had made a promise. Releasing a sneer, she pressed on the brake, and pulled up the hand brake to get the car to make U-turn that looked like more as a V, and drove toward the south.

They had made rules. It wasn't right that at the first opportunity he started breaking them. No, he started breaking that particular one. With her other rule, he was just _fine._ She gritted her teeth, her hands tightened around the wheel.

It took ten minutes to drive to the bunker, but the spare time didn't make anything to blow off her anger, or her worry. She knew he was approaching to the bunker from the dubbed voice in her ears, as he managed to dodge his company around the Central Park.

She passed through the old fenced doors, and parked the car in front of the hidden parkway. She opened the rusted padlock of the metal door, and walked into the empty warehouse. Directly, she went to the wall at the farthest north corner and pushed her hand on the mechanism at the wall. The floor under her feet moved, and started its smooth descended toward the hidden level below.

Being here, at the place she had spent her first three weeks when she had come to Bruce, had made her nerves even tenser, as the whiteness assaulted her senses. Pissed, she crossed the length of the hall, zigzagging over the long forgotten old equipment, and stepped inside the infirmary.

She sat on the armchair, crossed her legs, then waited.

Two minutes later, the platform lift hummed softly outside, and seconds later, Bruce entered into the infirmary, his cowl in his hand. He was limping slightly on his right leg, and his suit had a tear over his left upper arm, blood dripping over the rest of his arm.

For a moment, the scene stole her breath away, like each time she saw him in his armor, returning from the fight, battered and bloodied, eyes haunted. During the last two months, the scene had become a more frequent one, yes, but the effects were still the same. She couldn't help herself. A shudder passed through her body.

Though, it was odd to see him under the fluorescent, as he suited more with shadows and with his dear brethren in his cave. Under the bright light, the special fabric of his suit had turned to a dark gray, the matte Kevlar of his armor absorbing the light, like a black hole.

Without a word, he vanished into the bathroom. When he came out of it with his civil clothes after five minutes, it felt like a blessing. This Bruce Wayne she knew how to deal with.

He walked to counter, took the first-aid kid, and walked back to the stretcher. He started to stich himself up, his eyes trained on his new wound. The bike was causing him too much damage, she realized, watching him as he tended himself. The Tumbler, he needed to build another Tumbler.

His split was running over the length of his bicep, and he was having troubling to reach the backside. For a moment, she thought of going over to him, and help, but the next second, she decided a little bit nuisances would serve him just right. How he could be that stupid? She started gnawing her lips in order not to scream at him.

"Valerie," he called at her, his eyes still fixed on his wound, "Say it," he ordered.

Her eyes narrowed. "Say what?"

Still, he didn't look at her. "Whatever _kind_ words you're thinking to shout at me," he answered simply. She frowned. "I can hear you thinking."

The bastard, the bastard, making fun of her after what he had done. She fixed at him a pissed look. "Oh, I was just thinking if you _can_ be that stupid to go out knowing that there is a task force with an kill order on the spot after you," she had started rather well, but as she continued, her voice had started rising as well, "a force that you have no means to track—" She raised her hands in the air, "But who I am kidding?" she faked a laugh, smiling, "You _are_ Bruce Wayne."

He finally decided to look at her after her tirade, giving her a fleeting look, before he took the bandages from the counter, and started wrapping it around his arm.

Feeling herself a bit satisfied after the yelling, she finally stood up, and went to help him. She took the bandage from him, and started turning it around his bicep. "The Unheards—" he then said, lifting his eyes up at her under his slightly bowed head, "I went to look for them."

Then she understood. "Couldn't it wait?" she still asked though.

"No—it might get out of the control," he explained, "Alfred sent you a cable tonight. Didn't you see it?" he asked, frowning.

"No," she answered, running her eyes, "I didn't check my pager yet."

Bruce nodded, understanding she hadn't because she had been on the date. Her eyes skipped to catch a look at his face, but it was expressionless. "They were just kids, Valerie," he said after a while, as she wrapped the bandage the last time, "All this business with the Act 1010—" He shook his head, "I need to do something before this thing spirals out of control, and they turn the Joker a cult leader of sorts."

Pulling her hands, she nodded. "I checked the police report today," she remarked, her tone losing the fire in it after his declaration, "It was stated more than five videos claiming solidarity with the Joker being posted each day."

Bruce nodded. He had never talked how it made him feel—knowing that the Court might very well order his arch-nemesis's life to an end, a life he had chosen to save, despite himself. The words came to the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't ask. "You should have told me about it," she said instead, stepping back, "I could help."

"Doing what?" he asked, lowering his shirt over his bandaged arm.

She frowned at his tone. "Well, for starters," she hissed, "I would have stayed in the cave," her eyes turned to a glare, "instead of wasting time with an idiot."

His eyes snapped up at her, and a half of smile suddenly appeared over his lips. "He was that bad, huh?"

Her eyes narrowed more. "Don't change the subject," she warned, pointing a finger.

Understanding she wasn't buying his maneuver tactics, he turned back to the topic. "I didn't think they would find me," he explained.

"Bullshit," she shot back fast, "You knew they would, you even prepared an escape route, but you didn't tell me because you knew _I_ would opposite."

A fire lit in his eyes, he sprang up at his feet, and stood hovering above her. "I _didn't_ know I need to ask your permission to do what I have to."

She shook her head with frustration. God, how much more stupid he could be, she didn't know. "You don't need to ask _me_ to do anything, Bruce."

He took a step closer to her. "Then what the hell is the problem?"

"The problem is— _we made rules_ ," she shouted, "and you promised not to act like I'm a sort of damsel in the distress under your protection. You promised me you won't keep me out—" She threw her hands out, "but just two months, just two months, and you've already started breaking them."

Looking at her as if she was mad, he shook his head. "I'm not!"

She tilted her head aside, looking back at him. "Did Alfred know?" she asked, "Did you tell him?"

He looked at her in silence, and his silence again was her answer. "I didn't return for this shit, Bruce," she told him, her voice stern but still hurt, because she really hadn't stepped out of the lift nine months ago and walked to him to be treated like a lesser person. "I returned because you made me believe I have a place here," She looked at him straight in the eyes, "with you. But if you keep me out—" She shook her head, before she turned and walked out, "This won't work."

* * *

 _So, as far as I understood from the movies; I made my timeline like this:_

 _ **Batman Begins:** Bruce was partying his 30 at the end. I place it as being late October, like in the canon. Some says it's Feb, but in this story, it's October. October 2007._

 _ **Between BB and TDK:** I believe appro. nine monts passed between Batman Begins and the Dark Knight, because at the first robbing of the Joker, there was a date on the security camera's image; July 2008_

 _ **The Joker threatens Valerie:** August 2008_

 _ **Valerie escapes from the safe house after Harvey Dent's death:** September 2008_

 _ **Valerie calls Bruce again five months later:** January 2009_

 _ **They go to North Ireland:** Toward the end of January 2009; and turn back in somewhere in February 2009_

 _ **Valerie leaves for Bolivia:** At the end of the February 2009._

 _ **Valerie returns to Gotham after her operation:** Toward the end of August 2009_


	2. Part I-II

**Part I. II — "Rules of Engagement"**

* * *

After Valerie left, Bruce gathered his suit from the bathroom, and started tossing the scattered pieces of Kevlar armor inside the case, his harsh movements creating sounds that suited his current predicament. If she wanted to be in, then perhaps she would just _stay_ in, not storm out of his side to go to a goddamn hotel.

His expression souring even more, he threw the last piece inside, and banged the metal lid of the case forcefully. He couldn't keep her in if she wouldn't stay in. But Valerie, being her usual impossible self, of course wouldn't understand that. No, she just had to prove herself to—herself and—to him.

One month ago, after the late breakfast, she had suddenly announced that she was moving out of the manor. Bruce had looked at her as if she had gone mad, but then she had said it would be better if she had gotten her own place, instead of occupying his guest room.

Bruce had tried to be understanding of her wishes. He had known she wanted to have a place of her own, not just his main guest room. Most of her life, she was always alone, so he recognized her needs to get her own place. He had even offered her the penthouse in the city, knowing she would feel more comfortable in the town, being a city girl in heart, and also knowing _he_ would be more comfortable if she stayed somewhere he knew one hundred per cent sure was safe, but she had refused again.

No, she had decided that she wanted to live in a _hotel._

Where each person walked through the lobby would be a threat, countless workers to make background checks, countless rooms to survey, countless exits to cover up... It had been a nightmare, so much that he had had to purchase the damn hotel itself to set up his own surveillance; that ended up them having their biggest fight to the date when she learned what he had done.

Another thing she had taken as "breaking the rules".

His teeth gritted, he turned and walked out of the bunker, cursing silently her damn rules.

 _February, 2009_

 _Her eyes riveted on his, she walked to him. Her pace was slow, but each step was decisive, her eyes never running away. She had decided to stay, to take whatever he_ could _offer._

 _He knew it wasn't the best, but it was better than nothing, and perhaps one day...when things weren't this complicated, and when they weren't this—broken, they would—one day._

 _A few steps away from him, and from the bats that surrounded him, she stood, still staring at him, but she couldn't take the last step, as bats glided around him, like a protected net. He turned off the summoning device in his hand, but flying away from him, bats went toward her._

 _With the sudden attack, she retreated, her left arm raised over her head to protect herself, as the other waved in the air to fly off the bats assaulting her._

 _This time he walked to her, and gently held her arm, and lowered it down, as the indigenous habitants of the cave this time surrounded them. "It's okay," he assured her, like his father had done to him years ago, his voice low and soft, "They're just afraid."_

 _"_ _Oh, please!" she cried out, as still waving her free arm in front of her, her eyes turning to him, "Did you really need to do that?" she asked, her gaze dropping toward his hand, at the summoning device._

 _He grinned, as bats drifted over their heads in the heights of the cave. Breathing out heavily, inches apart from him, Valerie glared at him. "Thank you—" he then said. Thank you for coming, thank you for staying, thank you for trying._

 _He was staring at her, he couldn't help himself. The light green of her eyes had turned to a darker shade, but this time it wasn't because of anger. He glanced at her lips, and he saw her slowly swallowing...He could feel her breath itching over his skin, warm and musky, and hot, so hot... His legs moved on their accounts, as hers did, but backwards._

 _He blinked, and exhaled a sharp breath out, as Valerie put a few steps between them. Turning around quickly, she surveyed the cavern, as he closed his eyes half way, his mind snapping... So stupid, so stupid._

 _When she turned to him again, desire that had darkened her eyes just seconds ago was gone, instead there was an incredibility sparking in the depths of her green. Slowly, she started wandering around the cave._

 _Her hand raised, she touched the stone walls...wiggled her fingers through the waterfall at the northern corner. She inspected his work station, her eyes narrowed, and the working area; the machines, apparatus, devices he used to make Batman's tools, brushing her fingers over his work bench. She looked at the infirmary, the laboratory he had set up for his crime scene inspections, then turned to him._

 _She smiled a little. "So Batman really_ do _have a cave?" He reflected the same smile back. "What's it called?" she asked, her voice turning playful, "The Batcave?"_

 _His smile grew a bit. "Actually, yes."_

 _Her eyes widened. "No!"_

 _"_ _It was Alfred's idea," he defended himself._

 _Rolling her eyes, she shook her head at him, then her smile vanished, as her eyes picked up the glass vault at the corner. She let out a sharp breath, her eyes fixated at it._

 _Slowly, she started walking toward it. Bruce did the same too. Soon they stood in front of it, looking at his armor inside the vault. Her fingers raised and she touched the suit. "Did you build this yourself?" she asked in a whispered breath._

 _He shook his head. "No," he answered, "It was originally built as a Nomex Survival Suit, for advanced infantry," he explained, "Never got in the mass production."_

 _Her eyes skipped at him. "Like the Tumbler?"_

 _"_ _Yeah—" Bruce shrugged with exasperation. Like Fox had said, it was hard to make bean counters happy._

 _She brushed her fingers over the breastplate. "What's this?" she asked, "Kevlar?"_

 _"_ _Kevlar biweave," he corrected, "reinforced."_

 _Her eyes stuck at the suit, she nodded, then her hand reached out to his cowl, and she probed the tip of the mask with her fingertip—"Ouch!" She pulled her hand back, as her finger started bleeding. She turned to him. "It's sharp."_

 _Nodding, he smiled. "The tips are serrated—" She looked at him blankly. "Sometimes they try to hold me by—" his hand went over his head, "—ears," he finished._

 _But she was still looking at him with the same baffled expression. Bowing his head, he shrugged. "Everything can turn to a weapon," he remarked._

 _In return, she sighed, and muttered, "It's_ so _weird."_

 _He looked at her back straight in the eyes. "It gets easier." It had to. He wanted her to be part of his life, he wanted her inside. What he had told her was truth. He had gone to her for his selfish reasons. The thought of her being there alone… without his protection… even the thought itself was enough to make him drop on his knees—no, he couldn't lose her, too. He had already lost too much._

 _As if she had understood the same thing, her expression stiffened, and became resolute as if she had decided something. He knew she had. She was as much stubborn as he was. She wasn't going to admit defeat, not without fighting first._

 _Her eyes wandered around again, taking every detail in, then she announced, with a low but certain voice, "We need rules."_

 _His head snapped at her. "What?"_

 _"_ _If we're going to do this," she said decisively, "We need to define the ground rules."_

 _"_ _The ground rules?" he asked, his eyebrow arching on its account._

 _"_ _Yes," she answered without moving an inch, "So that we'd know the boundaries."_

 _Ah... He nodded. "Okay."_

 _"_ _You will respect me," she started seriously. He tried to interfere, but her hand rising in the air, she stopped him. "No, don't interrupt me. Listen." Her eyes took on a new fire, "You will treat me as an equal, not as some sort of damsel in distress that harbored under your roof. You will treat me as_ your _partner, and you won't keep me out—You promise?" he asked._

 _"_ _If only you promise you won't act imprudently," he countered with same seriousness, looking at her straight back, his eyes lit on a challenge._

 _She took it. "If you can restrain your controlling nature," she said with a daring smirk, "I'd restrain my recklessness, too."_

 _He nodded back, "Else?"_

 _Her resolution wavered a bit before she pulled herself back, and answered. "Under no circumstances, we mention what happened in the—backseat—again—" Her voice faltered but quickly she started again, straightening her shoulders. "That thing doesn't exist anymore."_

 _His mind drawing blank for a second, he looked at her, the exact thing that she wanted to erase assaulting the blankness... He wanted to opposite her. He wanted to scream at her... He wanted to take her in his arms and have her until she admitted it wasn't something that could go away like that, that it wasn't just sex... He wanted to—_

 _Her eyes lit with something he couldn't decide, she closed on in him. "I want this work, Bruce," she told him, her voice pleading, and he recognized what was inside her eyes… "I want us to be— friends—" She looked at him, her eyes glazed with unshed tears, "We can't let that ruin us."_

 _She was right. That thing between them...it was dangerous, like playing with fire. He took a small step back away from her, because temptation was so big, was so...sweet, she was just there, and if he reached out and took her, he knew she couldn't resist anymore... But he couldn't do that, he couldn't burn her…_

 _So he promised, "We won't."_

* * *

When he returned to the manor, Alfred was nowhere to be seen. Bruce went directly to the study. The night was still young, and as the option for going out eliminated, at least for tonight, he had better get some work done. This new task force, though, he needed to prepare a plan to deal with them. He couldn't take them at his tail each time he stepped out of the cave.

Alfred must be dealing with his upcoming birthday party in the next weekend. Bruce had opposed the idea, he really had, but Alfred had already made his mind; after the last—disastrous birthday celebration, it was time to Wayne Manor had another dinner party for his guest. When Alfred had pulled out of his sleeve his last, but the most powerful reserve, his family name, Bruce had had to accede.

He passed through the staff that was preparing the manor, shaking his head. Surely, it shouldn't take this labor to throw a party. Sighing heavily, he walked in the study. At least, Valerie liked parties.

Away from the cluster, the study was blissfully silent, as together with the dinner room in the second floor, it was the place the temporary staff in the manor was banned to enter. Walking to his study desk, he turned on his computer.

What he had seen tonight had only enforced his new plans regarding to the Dent Act. The new desperation wave was rising from the depths of the ghettos of his city, Narrows had it the worst, and while the Dent Act was necessary to keep the big fish in the pond, it was also making the pond a way too crowded. The balance was tipping off.

These people were needing another chance, a second chance. His time in North Ireland with Valerie had made him realize something that he hadn't understood entirely before, even his time abroad while he had been wandering trying to understand the mechanism behind criminality.

There was crime, and there was _crime;_ first simply spawning from the inequality and unfairness of the world that could be fixed, but the second from the dark part of the human soul, cruelty, and depravity. He was going to fight against the second one until his last breath, but the first one, he was going to fix. So that no child would watch their parents gunned down because of desperation.

He opened the Tabula Rasa Program documentation. The program had been causing distress among the board, as if it worked, in a few years the program would have all Wayne Enterprises industries taking in the service at least half of their staff with employees with juvenile records and/or victimless crime. The conditions were hard and long, but it would give the opportunity for a life beyond criminality who were seeking it, proved that life was not their destiny. It was the same thing his parents had tried to do, give people who had born with less luck a chance to change their future, and he was going to follow their steps.

Though, the board and the rest of the upper management wasn't taking his decision well. Lucius had been taking the brunt of their dissatisfaction, unfortunately, as being the notorious Bruce Wayne, he couldn't make such suggestions that went out of character with his playboy persona.

But he was determined. The kids he had seen tonight should not to be handed to the minds of like the Joker on a silver plate. No, they were not destined to live like that. He had power, he had means, and most importantly, he had _will_ to act, to change it, and change it he was going to.

He switched his screen, and the high ceiling conference room at the top of the Wayne Building came over the screen, under the darkness. There was no movement inside the room, everything silent. He watched the oval room for five minutes, and until he became sure there was no one.

Someone had bugged the room, he had found two device last week. He didn't know for certain who was behind the scheme, not yet. He had left them in place so that he would find out at least who he was going their back. The board had started playing dirty, and he got an idea from where the dirt was mostly spreading out; William Earle.

He wished he had a way to force the damn man away. He had been nothing but a nuisance since the time their path had crossed, he had tried to change his company to something that would produce death… His jaw settled with a grimace, he glared at the screen.

He was determined. They could not stop him.

He closed the tab, and switched to his usual rounds before he called it night, and went to the bed, dawn approaching. The white, clean structure of Hopkins Medicine stared at him from his screen. As per usual, the clinic was having a peaceful night, deep in slumber.

Quickly, he switched through the wings, halls, corridors, until he found Daniel Braden's room. Still in the same condition he had left him behind, Valerie's kidnapper was sleeping in the bed, an IV bag tied to his arm. During the nine month, he had lost weight, his cheeks sunken, straightened over his cheekbones, his legs and arms like twigs… He looked pitiful, but there was no pity in Bruce's eyes as he looked at the man. If Valerie hadn't managed to escape…. He shook his head, stopping his thoughts. He didn't even want to complete the rest of that thought.

With she entered in his mind, like each night he did before he went to sleep, he opened the Sundale Hotel's surveillance systems. Like he had done with the clinic, he quickly went over throughout the hotel, making sure everything was in order. The hotel, however, unlike the hospital, was still bursting life, the clienteles rounding up over the tables in the dining rooms, having heated discussion over the drinks, and music and laughter drifted over them in the air…

At East Midtown, in the bohemian side of the city that housed artists, writers, and craftsman from all kind of walks of the life, The Sundale Hotel was an old establishment, with a certain character. He could see why Valerie chose the place, like her old apartment it was close to the city center, but still secluded from the cluster of it, and more importantly the clientele, having bigger personalities than mountains didn't give a damn to each other.

Bruce Wayne could walk among them, and none of them would even cast him a glance. Their egos would never let them.

Still, he had put his surveillance, together with an alarm system that would warn him in the minute something was wrong. He knew he was being overly protective, but he really didn't know how else he would take her living in a freaking hotel. Oddly enough, after yelling at him for a good measure learning what he had done, Valerie let him do it, too.

She was trying too hard not to blow this off, even letting him put cameras inside her room, not taking her bracelet off…letting him do background checks on every soul she met or wanted to contact. He had placed her in a glass house, and she was trying to do her best not to break her promise.

His eyes skid toward the file on the desk, the file he had prepared for the "idiot" before Valerie had approached him in the bar. Sighing with frustration, he threw the dossier in the waste bin, and switched the channel to her room.

She was in the bed, already asleep, her face facing the door as she lay on her side, her arm arched toward the cushion, almost protectively. He knew her handgun was under her cushion, always, and he also knew that she was sleeping facing the door so that no one would catch her unawares.

Each minute he stared at the screen added another load to his pain and shame… She shouldn't be there sleeping alone. He should be there with her, holding her, so that her arms would hold him back, instead of inching toward her cushion unconsciously.

But he could _not_ … And he had to accept that _now_. His grimace turning grimmer, he closed the tab, and turned off the computer. They had made rules, and for everything she was willing to forsake to stay with him, he at least should keep his promise to her.

He stood up, and went to look for Alfred. Tomorrow he would make up to her. He was going to apologize for what he had done tonight, and he had better not to do that with empty hands.

And he knew exactly what kind of gift he should bring with himself.

* * *

Before her alarm beeped at nine o'clock, Valerie's eyes snapped open. She turned on her back in the bed, and stared at the ceiling. She needed to prepare but she didn't want to leave the bed. The fight from the last night had left her brain scattered, even after a seven hours sleep, if anyone could call that restless closed eyes state sleeping.

She barely could. But she _really_ needed to get up. Today was the day for her exam. She had been working for that damn thing like eight months now, and she would be damned if she failed another time, not after what had happened the last time, and certainly not because of a damn billionaire. The anger gave her the energy she needed for moving, so her lips turning to a snare, she threw the duvet off her and stalked to the bathroom.

Thankfully, Bruce had still enough decency not to bug also the bathroom…as long as she knew. She grimaced. She didn't want to believe that he could do it, but again how she could be sure? He had _bought_ a hotel in the middle of the city just to make a better surveillance, and easier to sneak in.

God, she didn't need to deal with this shit, at least not today. She had always known this was going to be hard, of course; their time in Belfast had made sure of that, but all in frankness, she hadn't expected that much, either.

But then again, like always, Bruce Wayne was full of surprises.

Rolling her eyes, she turned the tap, and washed her face, keeping her eyes dutifully away from any mirror or reflected glass. Her nerves were already frayed, as it was, thank you very much, no need for extra charge.

For a moment or so, she thought if she was overreacting, because of—today. This test was making her…nervous in a way that was unacceptable, skittish even, and there was no logical reason to feel like that. She was more than well-prepared; Jason could be a lousy father but he had been a great _teacher_ , and she hadn't spent her last nine months with the world's greatest detective with chitchatting about weather.

No, she was fitted to the job. It was just that…when she had entered the exam room, and sat one of those desks, and the invigilator starting giving the booklets, she felt something she hadn't felt for a long time… panic. An utter, bottomless fear.

It had been a mess; suddenly it started leaking out of her, and she wasn't having any idea what was happening, at least not at that moment, she was only aware of her sweating palms, and galloping heart, and that roaring in her ears as the clock on the wall tick-tacked each precious moment away.

Then it had gotten worse. The whole world had started to squeeze, filling up to her chest, and it was cold, so cold, her head spinning. She couldn't see, she couldn't breathe, but she could feel, that cold fear, her ears ringing, her stomach heaving. She sprang on her feet, ran out of the class, and threw up into the first waste bin she found.

Her time in the prison had caused many problems, and these anxiety attacks had been the worst of all. Though, it was understandable given the nature of the ordeal she had had to deal with just before she had released, escaping death being put in a body bag inside the morgue. _That_ would cause anyone a bit of problem, she guessed, or so she had always comforted herself in the lone, long nights.

But aside that quick moment in the crate Bruce had placed her during their first trip to Belfast, she hadn't had an attack since she was in America. She had dealt it, had accepted it and moved on. Life goes on, and all that jazz. But now this…

Valerie had known she needed to do something, so the next morning in the late breakfast, she had announced she was moving out of the manor. The idea had been already in her mind, but for some reasons she had always postponed it for another day, but what had happened in the exam made it a necessity. She could not let Bruce see her that way, she simply could not.

With a defeated sigh, she hung the towel and left the bathroom. She went to the mini bar, and opened a bottle of water, her eyes fixed at cooler's racks. They were empty. She had ordered the room service that she didn't want any drinks other than water and soda, but…perhaps…just a sip, it wouldn't be bad. It would really help, at least would smooth her nerves a bit— Maybe that was the problem, she was trying too hard, too much—to be something else.

Her eyes lifted upward, and she caught a glance at the mirror; smoothed features, shortened hair… Her breath itched. Forcefully, she evened out a breath, then slapped the cooler's door, her body tingling.

She needed to get rid of this tension. She needed to be _herself_ again.

Quickly, she started undressing, not caring whoever might be watching from the other side. She put on a long yoga pants and a sweater, then went to do what always brought her peace.

She ran.

* * *

When she returned to the hotel an hour later, out of breath and perspired until her underwear, but her mind mercifully at peace, or it had been until she was greeted by the certain billionaire, waiting in front of her room, his face hidden behind his hoodie.

Bruce Wayne was in the stealth mode. Most of his face was covered with a baseball cap and hoodie, as a sandblasted leather jacket and old khakis completed the image. From other side of the door, she looked at him, titling her head aside. "Did you sneak inside?" she asked, because it really didn't look like he had walked through the front door.

He shrugged with an unabashed ease. And it was a _very_ good thing that she had spent her last hour running like mad or else she might have assaulted him. "What are you doing here, Bruce?" she asked coldly, taking a sip from her water bottle.

His eyes found hers. "I came to drive you to the exam," he answered.

She gave him a look, before she pointed out, "The test is at two pm."

He shrugged again. "I thought we could talk a bit first."

She rolled her eyes. "You mean you wanted to apologize?" she shot back mockingly.

In return, he looked at her merely, but a silent warning edging his eyes. With a huff, she shook her head, and passed curtly the keycard through the slit on the door. She walked in, Bruce followed.

She directly went to the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower," she informed him, then decided to make it easier for him, after all he had come to apologize, and she was in the mood to hear the patented Bruce Wayne, groveling, being all gloomily and brooding over it. No wonder his birthday was coming. The man would make a textbook case for the Scorpio man. "You wanna apologize?" she asked, looking at him over her shoulder, "Get me something to eat."

Fifteen minutes later, she was out again, wearing another clean sets of yoga pants and sweater, and on the table, there was her favorite breakfast; cucumber sandwiches and Earle Grey. Well played, Wayne, she passed in her mind, sitting at the chair opposite of him.

"I wanted to give you this before the exam," Bruce said, tossing at her a glance, as she started helping herself with the sandwich, and took a cream color envelope out of his jacket—

Her face whitened. "I warn you, Bruce, if that's another letter from Jason, I won't be responsible for my actions." After what had happened in Belfast, Jason had suddenly become resolute making things right with her more than…well, ever. He had started sending her letters via Bruce, and each time she had declined. That part of her life hadn't changed. She still hadn't anything to tell her father.

Bruce shook his head, his eyes looking at her a bit weird. "No," he countered, and showed her a cream color square slim box she had thought as an envelope, "It's—" He paused for a second, "something you'll soon need."

Her eyes lowered, she looked at the box, then glanced back at him. Ah, a gift. He had actually brought her a gift. Her eyes sparked with a playful glee. "Beware of the Batman bearing gifts," she intoned dramatically, opening it, then she stared.

Little rectangular business cards, sturdy stock, with a matte pearl finishing, delicate script…her name;

 _Valerie West—Private Investigator_

She wanted to look away, she really did, but she couldn't tear her eyes off the card she held in her hands… _Valerie West—Private Investigator._ Her breath itching again, her chest contrived. "I still didn't pass the test," she said, her voice low, but a bit petulant, and she didn't notice the tone until she had heard it with her own ears.

"You will," he only said, looking at her.

She lifted her head from the card, and looked at him back. What had really happened in the test came to the tip of her tongue, but something still held her. She was already as weak as it was. She didn't want him to look at her like that, like she was really a damsel in the distress that needed his constant care. She was strong. She could take care of herself.

Besides, Bruce Wayne's attention and concern more than anything were committed to his city. She had no rights to ask more than what he _could_ give to her.

"I'm sorry about last night, Valerie," he said, proving her once again right, coming to the point, his eyes still fixated at her, "But you know I'd never purposely do something that hurt you."

And that was exactly what was wrong. "But so you can _accidently_ do?" she asked, staring at him coldly.

A frown immediately appeared over his eyebrows. "I didn't say that."

She smiled at him. "I read between the lines," she shot back, leaving the business card on the table, then leaned toward him over the table. "I know this is hard for you, Bruce, but it's hard for me, too, but I'm keeping my promise." She paused to raise her arm to show him the bracelet he had _gifted_ to her before, "I'm wandering around with a tracker on my person not because it's fun. I'm sleeping in a room with little bugs not because I like it. I'm doing those because I know it's necessary—" She looked at him straight in the eyes, and continued, releasing a shallow breath, "And because I know I can trust you. But trust is a two way street. So show me the same courtesy, will you? Because, you see, if there is a task force chasing you—" She waved her hand over the TV set at the wall, as she leaned further over the table, "I'd prefer to learn it from _YOU_ instead of the goddamn TV!"

Bruce was looking at her stiffly, in silence, and again it was her answer. God, this must be really hard for him, she could even see it from the way his jaw settled, and that tightness between his eyes, a proper Scorpio man, but she wasn't Alfred. She wasn't going to take that. She straightened back in her seat, and rested back. "So do you wanna really apologize?" she asked, "Tell me about that task force. Who are they?"

"I'm not sure," Bruce started, his expression still of a stone, as she frowned. What the hell that meant? "Gordon said it's a joint up effort from FBI and ATF," he explained, "but I can't find anything about such a task force." Her eyebrow raised, not because he was hacked into the federal databases, but because he couldn't find his way in. "Gordon asked a few times about them, but each time IA gave him short answers—" He paused for a second, "the Mayor even mentioned once—early retirement."

Her eyebrow vanished above her hairline, as she started understanding what was happening. "You think they're not Feds," she remarked, looking straight in his eyes for an answer.

And she found it in his darkened orbs. "No," he shook his head, "My guess is…" He paused again, "Homeland Security."

* * *

 _The idea of sleeping facing at the door belongs to **Persevera,** from an amazing little horror story she wrote once._

 _AND, Bruce is really a proper Scorpio, as it's why I chose to go with October instead of February for his birthday. Valerie is Gemini. Explains why the're constantly at odds with each other._


	3. Part I-III

**Part I. III — "Tolerance"**

* * *

As the moon vanished behind heavy dark rain clouds, crouched at the rooftop of the building his CI was enjoying himself, Bruce waited, his body like a statue in the shadows.

There would be no show tonight, not after the last night, but there were still things Batman needed to do. The day had passed quickly, but the night was crawling, and after talking to his CI, he had to go to see Gordon. Gordon had sent a message via their encrypted phones, said he had news for this new task force.

A flicker of grimace flattened his lips further, bleakening more his already dreary mood. For a second, Valerie's worried face flashed over his eyes, but he chased the thought away, and focused. It wasn't time to distract himself. She was out of trouble, safely sitting in the cave, sending him quick directives whenever she sensed a disturbance in the trackers. Not that it meant much of anything, as he wasn't even sure who or how many of them were on his tail anymore, and the police was always a call away from his position. The criminals had developed a habit to call the police whenever he was sighted on.

The all possible aspects grimed his expression even more under the cowl, but he was still determined. They could not stop him, nor hinder him. _This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immoveable object…_ echoed in his ears, but he pushed that thought away, too.

He was not going to let _his_ madness ruin his city; he had already done enough damage.

His feet staggering, his baseball cap hanging at loose over his head astride, and many fake golden necklaces around his neck, his informant walked out of the pub he had passed the last two hours hiding in the shadows. The CI preferred to be called Bottlecup, an inside joke Batman didn't share.

He fired the grapple gun toward the next building, and dived toward the street boy, his cape ejecting from the back of his shoulder blades. As soon as he took a hold of the CI, he wrapped the suit around them, then started scaling up back to the rooftop.

He dropped the Bottlecup to the cement pavement. "Oh-oh—man—" the half drunken man whined softly, then looked at him with wide eyes. "I been clean, Bats, I swear—" he swore hurriedly, and raised his arms, "These pumps been junk free—" he added, waving his arms. Bruce could hear the proud in the young boy's voice.

"I know, William," Batman rasped with a gruff voice, his meaning clear. William Slater had born in the streets, and much like many of his priors, he had fallen with drugs. Bruce had recruited him a few months before everything turned to mad when he had been about to rob a car. Bruce had been after a ring that Bottlecup sold his stolen merchandise, so he had made the young boy his informant, then after he dealt with the ring, he got the street kid clean off drugs, and Bottlecup had served him through all since then.

He looked at the slum kid. How better would he find intel about slum kids than questioning one directly. "The Unheards," Batman rasped, "What do you know about them?"

Bottlecup shrugged, but there was an unease in his usually causal movements. "Not much," he answered, "Tis like they came up outta nowhere." He started to pull up on his feet, "One moment there been't there, then next—" He waved his arms around, "they're everywhere—"

That seemed to be correct. Before he had drove Valerie to the exam, they had studied the data they had acquired from the satellite, and what he had seen made him only more concerned. The graffiti were literally on every wall in the Narrows, the whispers hushed in the shadows. The Unheards were taking a grip in his city. "Who is their leader?" Bruce growled out at his informant.

"Their leader?" the young boy laughed, actually _laughed_ at Batman, "There aren't no leader—not with these guys," he said, then paused for a second, as if he had understood what he had just done, then quickly started to backpedal, "I can look around if you want, boss—"

"No—" Batman objected with a deep rasp, no, Bottlecup wasn't going to look around. He was going to do something else. "Infiltrate," he ordered, taking a step further in on him, and held the young boy's eyes relentlessly, "I want you in."

Before Bottlecup would even open his mouth, Batman vanished into the sky.

At the alley backside, Bruce sent a message to Gordon, and waited for the commissioner. The pub Gordon frequented each Monday for a drink was only a block away from his post, so it was still a good alibi. Though, probably, he would need to find another spot for their meetings, as he was starting to suspect that things would not be easy between the Commissioner and him anymore. The Mayor had been pressing hard on him for his arrest, and Gordon's feet dragging was—speculative. And now, this new task force…he sneered out a silent growl with frustration. Nothing—nothing was going well in his life. Nothing.

His city was succumbing to the pieces, Dent Act making things even more completed, his board going behind his back, and—Valerie—He stopped his thoughts, before he went to there. _Focus_ , he berated himself mentally, but it was easier said than done, as at the moment she entered into his thoughts, her voice was also heard in his ear.

"Gordon signaled," she informed him, "He's approaching. Clean." There was a tiredness in her voice although she tried to restrain it, but Bruce could sense the fatigue. It was closing to two in the morning, and he was still keeping her on her feet. But she had insisted, after the exam, when he had told her he was going to see Gordon tonight she had demanded to be in the cave.

He didn't pay her enough for this. Actually, he _could_ , but that was another thing Valerie was adamant on it. When she had been aboard, money wasn't in the question, as it was still the part of their initial bargain, even though she had given him back the USB stick she had taken with herself when she had tried to run away. But after her return, Bruce had wired five hundred million dollars to her bank account, and Valerie almost snapped his head off, another example of "breaking rules" according to her.

She then prepared a chart to calculate the amount of time she did research for him, then fixed a figure for him to pay to her for her work; a mere three millions per month- the average monthly salary for a private detective. She was nothing close to average, but she had objected, saying that she wasn't even a PI yet. And that had put the whole discussion to an end.

A figure slowly walked out of the shadows and soon took the shape of the Commissioner. Forcing the thoughts to the back of his mind, Bruce moved out of the shadows. He had a job to do; a city to protect. He couldn't tolerate any distraction anymore. "Gordon," he greeted the older man, his voice dropped into the distinctive rasp.

Gordon looked like he hadn't been sleeping since the last night; his face ashen, his eyes diluted. This summer his wife had walked out of him, too, taking his children along, and Gordon hadn't been the same since then. That pang of guilt was still there, as Barbara Gordon's accusing voice, in pain and desperation _, you brought this on us_ , and in a way, yes he had, and it was the exact reason why each night he slept in his bed alone. He could not do this to another woman.

Chasing that thought away too, he looked at the commissioner. _Focus, concentrate. Control your emotions… Master your senses._ Those were always what Ducard had been telling him when he was in the training, and it was no wonder Bruce had telling those words to himself repeatedly these days. His expression souring more, he asked to Gordon, "What do you have for me?"

Gordon handed him to a manila folder. "Only more trouble, I'm afraid," he said tiredly, "This man came today to see me," he explained as Bruce opened the folder. Inside, there was only a photo of a blonde man with clear blue eyes from CCTV cameras as he was walking into the police HQ. The man was looking at the security camera blankly, but the look spoke to Bruce in volumes. Gordon was right. More trouble was coming.

"He gave his name as Floyd Lawton, but I'd be surprised if there would be anything with that—" Gordon continued, his lips barely holding a sigh, "Homeland Security," he then confirmed, "The Mayor personally called me to order to assist him without any—interference, and answer all of his questions."

Something—a cold shiver passed through his under suit. The way Gordon had said that, looking at his eyes behind the cowl, as if to gauge his reaction. He could still remember the last time Gordon had given him that kind of look. "What did he ask?" he rasped.

"He asked about—" Gordon paused, his eyes still on his, "Cameron Reese." In his ear, Bruce heard a hiss of breath, as Valerie sharply inhaled. Gordon shook his head, his frustration manifesting in the single gesture, "The order came up. I can't do anything. We're reopening the investigation on her."

Without a single word, Bruce turned off his comm, and disappeared into the night.

He did not know how he reached to the Batpod or drove to the cave, his ears completely in silence. No. He was not going to allow this. He was not going to tolerate. Not anymore. This time he was going to close it in a way that it was not going to open again.

In the cave, he jumped off the bike, his cowl already in his hand. "Alfred," he barked at his former guardian, tossing the cowl away. Valerie looked at him with a blank look, but he could still see the fear over her face, too, and that look only hardened his resolve. She should not feel like this. He hadn't wanted her to stay with him for _this._ "Prepare the guest room—" his eyes shifted toward her for a second, "You're staying in until we solve this," he told her, his voice stern, and out of question.

Valerie only nodded. Bruce turned to Alfred. "Cancel all of my appointments for the rest of the week, and find me a good alibi," he ordered to the older man, "And get me Fox, too."

"Bruce," Valerie asked, finally getting out of her stupor, and walked to him, "What's happening?"

He shook his head, more to himself than her. "I won't have them after you, Valerie," he rasped, his eyes lit with a fire, his voice brazen, "I won't tolerate this anymore." He looked at her straight in the eyes. "We're ending this once and for all. We're killing off Cameron Reese."

* * *

For all of the craziest ideas she had ever heard all in her life, including hers, this was taking the cherry pick of the cake. Nothing could beat it, nope, even her desperate attempt to find Christian. In the following morning, they were seated around the table in the study, but his plan in the daylight still seemed as crazy as it was in the night. "You're not kidding," Valerie said, staring at him, "You're planning doing it."

"I already did it once with Gordon," Bruce answered with a stiff voice, but there was an obvious shrug in his tone, too, as he tried to play it nonchalant. She didn't buy it. He stared at back, "You already did it, too," he reminded her.

She shook her head. "That was different," she objected, "I wasn't a fugitive then," she opposed further, "And Gordon is a cop. They're not the same."

"I didn't say it was," Bruce said again with the same tone.

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't play the semantics with me, Bruce," she warned, her voice hardening, "not now."

His expression hardened, too, but he dropped the act. "He's Homeland Security," he rasped, his hand waving around the blond man's photo over the table, "and he came to ask about _you_. They will rip you apart—"

"You couldn't find anything—" she cut him off.

"There wasn't a man lying in the coma back then," he _reminded_ her, "And words are already out. Riley blew you out the last year. The only thing that keeps the mob away from Daniel now is Batman's fury. That man won't have the same—reservation" He paused for a second, but then continued, relentlessly lying his case, not giving her a chance to recuperate, "Valerie, you know, it's the only option. We need to finish this." He shook his head, looking at her, "I can't have them looking after you."

Something seized in her chest after his words. He could not, she knew it, but it was… "Bruce—let's say that we manage it, somehow we fool them, but a doctor will need to sign an affidavit. It's—"

Bruce cut her off, "Fox contacted Leslie last night—"

Her eyes widened. "You told Leslie Thompkins?" She knew the doctor, an old friend both Fox and Alfred, and a co-worker of the late Thomas Wayne was helping them sometimes from proxy, but she didn't know his secret. And she could not believe Bruce was bringing her in for this.

However, he shook his head. "No. Fox just told her that she needed to do something for us." There was a brief hesitance in his voice, she could see he wasn't liking that prospect, but that wouldn't change his mind. He had already decided. Oh dear god.

"She still has questions, but she will do it," Bruce said, as if he was closing a discussion that had barely started.

She leaned toward him over the table. "Bruce, darling, don't you think you're still forgetting something?" she asked with frustration, her hand going over her face. "I don't look like Cameron Reese!" She threw her hands in the air. "How are we going to fool them at the first place?"

"You look very _close_ to Cameron Reese," he shot back, "Fox is preparing a skin mask with the 3D printer." Her eyes widened further, as she understood he meant, "We'll place it onto your skin with plastic make-up."

"That's Mission: Impossible," she retorted, "See, _impossible_."

"Not play with semantics, Valerie," Bruce threw her words back at her. He halted for a second, "You know it can be done."

She huffed. "Okay, okay," she said, rising her hands in admission, "Let's assume one second, it can. But there is _still_ something—" He looked at her merely. "Witnesses!" she exclaimed, "They will want to see a DEAD body—" Her voice raised higher, "How are you going to do _that_?"

Then his look turned to that one, and suddenly, all breath left her lungs. She stared at him blankly. "Oh—" she whispered out, "You're really going to do it. You're going to kill me—literally."

* * *

Five minutes later in the cave, Valerie was looking at the little white capsules in his palm. "They're potassium cyanide," he explained, "CIA call them fake death pills. They distribute them to their field agents to be used in case of the need." Valerie didn't question how he would know such stuff, it didn't seem important, and she had already heard the stories. He took another container, and showed different pills, this time blue. "And this is the mix of stimulants that reserve the effects. I will give it to you after Gordon brings witnesses to see the—body."

Her dead body, she corrected in her mind. "How long do I have before the effects becomes—permanent?" she asked, trying to keep her voice cool. She must be mad, even asking that, she must be even madder than even him, but… It would give her the opportunity she was seeking, to be finally free.

He looked at her, his eyes shaded, but answered truthfully, "The antidote must be taken in the first two hour after the consummation. After then, brain starts shutting itself because of the lack of oxygen."

She sharply inhaled. Leaving the pills on the bench, Bruce closed to her, more shadows entering into his eyes. "Valerie, you know, I'd never purposely do something that would hurt you," he repeated what he had told her just this morning. Suddenly life had become much more complicated again. Just this morning she had thought her most challenging problem was her exam, and now she was discussing plans to fake her death, again, while temporary killing herself.

She heaved a sigh. "It's the accidental part that still worries me," she mumbled, running her eyes away.

He came even closer, and whispered at her, "I'll be with you, won't leave your side even for a second."

She shook her head in defiance. "Batman can't be there. It'd only make things more screwed up." The image of the convoy from the previous night flashed in her mind, as this Lawton guy would surely want to take a part in-the event. No, Batman couldn't be involved. It would be nothing but suicidal.

But Bruce shook his head back at her. "Not Batman, _me_ ," he rasped, his eyes fixated at her, "I'll infiltrate the RRT team. I'll cover you." He halted, as his eyes heated with another fire, "Valerie, I'll keep you safe. I promise."

The words almost broke her. A myriad of emotions she couldn't even understand anymore twisted her stomach into a knot. She took a step forward him. He was so close, so close, but she still didn't know how to reach him. Her eyes starting hurting, she blinked to keep her tears away. He shouldn't do this, shouldn't tell her things like that, not when…not when... She let out a breath, then Alfred's voice came from the diaphone.

As her mind leapt on it to focus something other than _that_ thing, she turned toward his work station. "Master Bruce," the mechanical voice Alfred called him, "The guests you've been waiting have arrived."

A frown immediately pulled her eyebrows. The guests he had been waiting..? He had cancelled all of his appointments last night. She twirled to him, her eyes looking at him in question.

"Valerie—" Bruce told her, his voice this time clear and resolute, his eyes adamant. She felt a shudder pass through her body. "I don't want you to react—" he said, but the words were more of an order than wish.

She shook her head, her stomach knotting further, but this time for all different reasons. "Bruce Wayne, tell me you didn't do what I think you did!" she shouted, "Tell me you didn't ask Jason in!"

* * *

In the fifteen minutes following her exclamation, Valerie kept yelling at him, wearing the cave's stony ground under her feet. All things considered, she had taken everything he had told her well, much well he had considered, but Jason had been the last straw. Bruce knew it, but it didn't matter. He didn't like it, either, didn't like Jason and Rory bring here—further into his life, but what had to be done must be done.

Valerie had been right on that part. He could not do this alone, he needed help. And her father was the best bet.

Though, Valerie wasn't seeing it. "How dare you, Bruce Wayne, how dare you!" she fumed, "You know I never ever want to see him again. How can you bring him here to the _manor_?!"

Bruce had had enough. He had tried to explain himself, but it was enough. He had done what he had to, and he wasn't going to apologize for that. Besides, it was him risking everything here, _for_ her. He had always tried to be understanding of her wishes, tried to do his best, but enough was enough.

He sprang on his feet, and leapt to her. He stopped her crazy pacing, holding tightly her upper arm, and turned her to him. She fought back, but his grip only tightened. "Do you really think it's easy for me, Valerie?" he snapped at her, "Bringing your father further into my life when he already knows too much?"

In sudden silence, she looked at him. "I asked Jason to come, because it had to be done, because I _can't_ guarantee your safety alone," he admitted, letting her go, but kept looking at her, his eyes hardening.

"I try to be—considerate, Valerie," he said, taking a deep breath, "You wanted to move out, I said yes. You wanted to move to a hotel, I still said yes—"

She barked out a laugh. "For god's sake, you bought the hotel!"

His reserves snapped again. He pulled her closer, inches apart. "It _had to_ be done!" he hissed, "I do what I have to. I don't want you to live in a glass house, Valerie, but I can't—can't do what I have to if I worry about you constantly." His eyes found hers. "I can't tolerate this anymore."

As soon as the words left his mouth, she flinched back as if he had hit her. She swallowed slowly, her eyes watering. Bruce closed his eyes for a second, cursing himself. "Sorry for being this much of a burden, Bruce," she said with a low voice, "keeping you distracted from what's important."

She turned away. He held her arm to stop her again. "Valerie—" his voice quacked with a rasp, "That-that wasn't what I said."

She pulled her arm off. "But it was exactly what you meant," she said before she walked away.


	4. Part I-IV

**Part I. IV — "Survival"**

* * *

Standing in front of the long window in his study the next morning, Bruce watched Valerie as she ran around the track in the grounds, her eyes fixed ahead, her face settled, her jaw squared with determination as if her existence was focused on only doing it.

Bruce had noticed her need to get herself physically busy a long time ago, but after her decision to give up on drinking six months ago, her morning joggings had become something—treatment-ical. So it was no surprise finding her sprinting around the track like her whole life depended on it. Much better than finding her bottling up a Macallan 21.

With a sigh concealed at the tip of his tongue, he turned away from the window, and walked to his study desk. He wished he himself could hit the gym and blow some steam off by hitting something, but he had a risk assessment to finish.

Settling on his seat, he glanced down at the matrix in front of him.

 _Identify. Review. Control. Evaluate._

He wasn't taking any chances, not with her life. Each risk had to be calculated, and proper action plans had to be considered. He could take any chance with his own life, but never with anyone else's. This was his decision, and no one else would pay for it, never again. Certainly not another woman—

He stopped the thought, and turned his attention to the matrix. That kind of thinking wouldn't help Valerie. He took a red pen from the pencil tray to start circling "extreme" risks, then his new guests walked in, Alfred tagged behind them.

"Master Wayne," his once guardian respectfully called whenever there was another in their presence. Out of sudden, Bruce noticed Alfred didn't call him Master Wayne anymore when he was together with Valerie, but preferred to go with "Master Bruce" like he did when they were alone.

The inclinations were clear, but Bruce turned them off his mind, and instead focused on the problem ahead. The problem that was staring at him with a smirk over his lips, his eyes glinting.

"Nice house, _boy_ ," Jason Allen greeted him, stressing the last word mockingly, then threw himself on the armchair in front of the desk, and turned to Alfred, "Hey, do you happen to have an apple around?" he asked, "I'm famished."

Alfred casted at him a look. Bruce slightly nodded. With less dramatics, Rory walked to the desk, too. He had changed since the last time Bruce had seen him. Gone the desperate man he had seen in Belfast, instead stood a man with clear objections. Under the alias of Tim Drake, Rory had done miracles in the Wayne Humanitarian Relief Aid. Under his observation, together with Jason's contacts, more shipments had crossed the border in the total of the last five years. Bruce was pleased. And they had also kept a good track of Christian, too. In other words, they had proved themselves—reliable assets.

And now, he needed them even more.

The Batman was still the pink elephant in the room they hadn't talked yet, but Bruce had decided to take the leap. For Valerie, he could do that. His eyes skid to the matrix again. He did what he needed to. And now, he needed to trust these men to keep Valerie safe and alive.

Alfred returned with the apple the next second. The older man took it, and pulled out of his Swiss army knife. "So, what's it?" he asked, slicing the apple, "Last night you said she's in trouble." He paused, "Not that I'm surprised or anything."

Bruce pretended he hadn't heard the last part, even though he couldn't exactly disagree— "The police's retaking the investigation on Cameron Reese—" he explained plainly, and added, "together with Homeland Security."

There wasn't many things that would make Jason Allen speechless, but Bruce was glad he had seen at least one of those things. His hand with the knife hung in the air, the older man gave him a blank look, then the next second, with a flick of his wrist, the knife folded in. Jason looked at him with eyes heated enough to melt the stone. "I hope you do have a plan, Wayne," he hissed.

Bruce grimaced. "You wouldn't be here if I didn't," he encountered, "We're closing this thing, but—" he said, his eyes going between them, "I need your help—to keep her safe."

* * *

It was a cold but sunny morning, even though the sun did nothing to warm up the morning chill, but as she made her laps, Valerie barely noticed it. She only tried to focus on make her legs taking another step, but she couldn't help her traitorous mind wander away…

 _I can't tolerate this anymore._

She sneered out a low grunt in a laboring breath, phrase turning in her mind like she did around the track. Suddenly, it felt like she had been doing the same thing for a time, running around the circles without no destination whatsoever. She knew she still had no rights to be resentful, she had decided to stay knowing exactly how things would be like. Doing what he thought as his _duty_ was Bruce's most important functionality, and she had come to the manor, accepting it.

She could always leave, too; it wasn't like that she had signed some contract with her blood or anything. She could walk out, the real threat was staying here. Out of Gotham, with her new identity and face she would be safe, and much more at her element. Look at how relaxed she had become to believe that no one would open her case again.

She supposed the safety Bruce had provided had done that to her, and it was dangerous, something _she_ couldn't tolerate. There would be no more distraction for him, either; he could perfectly concentrate on what truly important, not worrying about her constantly… It was the most logical option. Then why the hell she didn't want to do it, still, despite everything, she was staying?

She let out another growl, picking up her speed, until her existence became to move her legs into another step, one by one, to take another stride, no thoughts in her mind. She ran, until her joints ached, her muscles constricted, until her breath turned to a fire in her throat, her blood lava. When the world started spinning around, she stopped on trembling legs, and leaned against the main staircase's stone wall, and rested her head back.

She breathed laboring for minutes, deep snuffs moving her chest. "I see you picked up another hobby," the amused voice she least wanted to hear remarked somewhere from her behind.

Her eyes snapped open, and she turned aside, and looked at her father. God, not now, not now, she wasn't ready for this, not yet. This morning she had woken up before anyone would do, and gone out to run the stress out of her system but it didn't work. She was still as frayed as last night.

"So—this is where you live now," Jason continued, when she didn't speak, his eyes wandering around the majestic castle-like manor and its vast ground. He smiled. "It's—spacious."

She heaved out another laboring breath, but this time it wasn't because of exercise. "No—" she said stiffly between breaths, "I live in a hotel."

His eyebrow raised into a perfect arc, and it was really unfair that he hadn't even blinked once seeing her, with her face all healed and changed. After the operation, Jason had stayed for two months, while she had been still in the recovery, then she told her Bruce rather adamantly if she saw him another day around her, she would leave. He had left then, leaving another letter to Bruce, and his letters had kept coming even though she always refused to accept them. He knew Bruce sent him updates on her, but still, he would at least have the decency to look—surprised. "A hotel?" he asked, his tone getting more amused, as a smirk lifted the corner of his lips upward, too.

She wanted to wipe it off. "Yes," she said bitingly, and started to climb the stairs, leaving him at the bottom.

He caught to her the next second. "He just told me about his plan—" he said rather unceremonially, "Are you sure do you want to do it?"

She wasn't, god, she really wasn't, but she wasn't going to tell him that, either. "Yes," so she said, taking fast steps, trying to put a distance between them.

But Jason also didn't have the courtesy of taking her silent request. He picked up his speed, too, and caught her again. "Did you tell him what happened in the prison?"

The question stopped her dead in her tracks. She swirled at him, not quite believing what she had heard. He had gals to ask her _that,_ after all the things had happened between them, he had actually asked her about that. "You—" she said, words failing her once again, "You—how dare you—"

Jason shook his head, with exasperation of all things. "Apparently, you didn't," he murmured under his breath, then looked at her. "Sweetheart, you need to."

Anger twisted her features even more. "I certainly do not!"

"Val-Valerie—" he said her name softly, but hesitantly, as if he was testing, "You'll be presumed death—" He paused for a second, swallowing the rest of his words, then said, "You need to tell him, so he knows what to expect."

"There is nothing to expect," she boldly lied, and Jason just gave her a look. Growling, she started climbing the stair in a running place, even though it looked like she was running away. No way she confessed a man who had just told her he couldn't worry about her constantly she might have a panic attack because he was putting her into a body bag. Besides, Jason was just speculating. He didn't know her attacks had started again, and it was only one time—

She growled out, forcefully opening the door, then came to face with Rory and Bruce as she almost walked them over.

"Hi—" Rory said, his eyes curiously on her. Rory looked different. Around her own age, a year minor from Bruce, Rory had been looking much, much younger next to Bruce's intimidating physical appearance, but apparently in the last nine months Rory had gained his own appearance too. His muscles had enlarged and swelled, his stance adopting a much more confident streak. His eyes, though, was the same, still determined, but glinting with more fire, the bleak desperation she had seen before was gone.

A warm smile pulled out her lips. "Hello there—" she told him back, "It's good to see you again."

Rory nodded. "It's good to see you, too," he said, then added, his eyes shifting to Bruce, a slight hesitance entering into his demeanor, "Bruce was showing me around." He gave her that baffled look she knew from the heart.

She gave up a sigh, though it was good to know that someone else was as baffled as her knowing the real Bruce Wayne, as Jason was still pretending it was the most ordinary thing in life. She drew closer to him, and whispered at his ear, her smile growing, "Don't let him to take it over your head."

She made a move to pass them, but before she could, Bruce's voice stopped her. "Valerie," he called, his voice diplomatically neutral, "We're leaving in an hour. We need to practice."

She nodded back stiffly, before she walked away, "Okay."

An accident from the police chase was going to be the cause of her fake death. Bruce had planned with Gordon as if the police commissioner had discovered her trail, and a cortege would track her, Bruce among them undercover, then she was going to hit the car at the rail guards of the Washington Bridge. Piece of cake, really. Only of course Bruce was going to make her practice with a modified car until he had become satisfied with her driving skills, and it was no use saying that she had already done that before.

Control freak, she growled under her breath, walking to the guest room.

* * *

"So she sleeps in the guest room?" Jason asked causally, out of blue, as his eyes stayed fixated on the Ford Mustang Valerie was driving.

Bruce's eyes skipped to the older man from the car, and didn't say anything back, even though he had understood what exactly Jason was asking. He brought his binocular to his eye, and checked her. Ford Mustang had been used by stunt artists before, so he was quite adamant that it wouldn't let them down, but he wanted Valerie to be completely at ease with the car. "Actually, she sleeps in a hotel room," he encountered after a second, adjusting the bino closer onto her.

Jason snickered. "Yeah, I heard." He paused, "So—" and started again, "What happens in Belfast—stays in Belfast?"

His head whisked at him, Bruce gave the older man a look.

Jason barked out a laugh in response. "You're both funny," he said, still laughing, "I give it two months-" His laughter stopped, and he looked back at him, in challenge, "tops," he added.

Bruce's look turned to a glare. Sometimes he really understood why Valerie didn't want to see her father. God, the man was nothing but a frustration.

Jason, however, only laughed more at his glare. "As unique as you're, boy, you're still a man." Deciding giving him the silent treatment again, Bruce moved his attention back to Valerie, as she made another U-turn on high speed, "How long can you resist?" Jason asked.

Silent treatment to be damned! He snapped to the man, lowering the binocular. "You know, this is a highly inappropriate conservation to have with a man about your daughter."

"I'm a libertine," Jason retorted unabashed, then his gaze lost the amused look, but became serious, his eyes drifting to the car, "And I'm worried."

"I'll keep her safe," Bruce said back immediately, almost on reflex, but Jason shook his head.

"Not about that," Jason said offhandedly, still shaking his head. Bruce frowned. "I'm worried—about past." The crease between his clenched eyebrows deepened, then Jason let out a frustrated a sigh, and said something in Irish, something he had never seen him do before, then turned to him. "I'll tell you something, but under no circumstances you will mention it to her."

Bruce looked at him blankly. "Or she won't talk with both of us the rest of her days," he continued.

"What are you talking about?"

"You need to look after her very carefully after you revive her back," Jason demanded seriously.

"Of course, I will. She's coming back from—death."

Jason shook his head. "No, not because of that—" He paused, "You need to because she might have a panic attack."

"What?" Bruce all but shouted.

Jason walked closer to him, his tone dropping into a whisper, his eyes casting another look at her direction. "Look, when she was in prison, a month away from her release, the guy we crossed over tried to get her killed. There was a mutiny, and he paid the guards. Sa—Valerie took refuge in the medical wing. The doctor there, Clara, her brother was one of us in the back of the days. The doctor helped her, like always. She put her in a body bag, and hid her in the morgue." Jason stopped for a breath, giving out a sigh. Bruce couldn't do anything but look at him, in complete silence. "Then the guards came to look for her. Clara tried to send them away, but—you see, Act 2000 had just enacted, the half of the force was hating the other half, and the guards were the former RUC officers. Things went bad." He halted again, "Clara had to attack one of them, to protect herself… They killed her."

"For a long time, she blamed herself for what happened," Jason continued, giving out another sigh, "I told her millions time it wasn't her fault, but you know how she is. She started drinking heavily, with other substances, but they worsened her condition. She developed a mild claustrophobia—" He paused again, "and started having panic attacks."

Bruce recalled their trip to Belfast; how she had called him, out of her mind. Suddenly the way she had looked made complete sense. She had had a panic attack because he had put her in a crate… _I don't like small places._

God. He closed his eyes, breathing out. She had never even mentioned a word. And if her father wouldn't say anything— His expression hardened. This was the kinds of risks in his matrix he would have colored with blood red, with the note "fatal risk". He had to keep her safe, but how he could do it if she always kept something from him?

"You can't tell her a word—" Jason quickly said, assessing his expression correctly, "If she learns I told you, she seriously never will talk to me again."

His face didn't loosen. "She should have told me."

Jason only laughed. "Hey, until now you must at least know the woman you're living with. She'd prefer dying before she admits it to you. You know how much she hates being considered weak."

"She _still_ should have told me," Bruce insisted, his voice dropping into a rasp instinctively.

His face hardened, Jason gave him a hard look. "So you tell her everything, never keep anything from her, huh?"

Bruce frowned. "That's different."

"No," Jason objected stiffly, "It's the same, it's the past. And how much of yours have you actually shared with her?"

The question had his lips flattened into a grimace. He tossed another glare at the older man.

Jason shook his head at him. "Don't be a hypocrite, Wayne," he said, "You're both cut from the same cloth."

* * *

"How was it?" Bruce asked with an impassive face, as she stepped out of the modified car, his voice stiff. She frowned at the tone, but the next decided to ignore it. She had seen him talking with her father, as she had been driving the car, and seen Jason leaving Bruce with a pissed look as Bruce looked at him behind with that expression over his face, annoyance clear and cold as the cloudless sky above them.

She knew her father well, and now she knew Bruce rather well, too, so she knew whatever that talk had been about, it was something she didn't want to get involved. Nope. Not at all. She shrugged. "Would do it, I guess," she answered, her eyes shifting to the old Ford Mustang.

It would, probably. She wanted to sigh aloud, but contained it at the tip of her tongue, not wanting to give Bruce another thing to _worry._ She wasn't worried, anyway. Though, she wasn't exactly unconcerned, either. On their own accounts, her eyes drew to Bruce.

No, she wasn't worried with her skills, not the way Bruce was preoccupied. She was a damn good driver, Jason had always made it sure during the time they had spent together, and she did quite well under duress. It was just that she did it under duress. She did them _just_ the moment she thought it. Most of her times her moves weren't forethought, she just thought of something, then did it, but all in frankness, if she did think about them, she wouldn't have possibly done any of them; she couldn't have thrown herself at Daniel and caused an accident, she couldn't have driven over the men who were trying to take Rory away, she couldn't have walked into a pub full of men with guns pointed at her head.

Bruce was different. All of his actions were meticulously planned, and analyzed, proper action plans already taken. He was extremely good with improvising, but that was mostly because he usually reconsidered things from every angle, so there was no real surprise for him.

 _You need to tell him so he knows what to expect…_ Jason's irritating voice suddenly echoed in her mind. God, she hated when her father was right. She had to tell him, this wasn't just about sharing the past, which she really wasn't good at, but about survival, her own survival, and also him, and she didn't want to risk that, either.

Damn him to hell and back, but she cared the idiot too much to do that. And she knew, despite everything, he did the same, too.

She turned to him. "Bruce—" she called. He turned aside and looked at her. "Those pills I'll take before I hit the rails," she asked, forcing her voice into a neutral tone, "What are the side effects?"

His eyebrow clenched, as the crease above them deepened, his eyes studying her carefully. "Why do you ask?" he questioned, insteading of answering. No, he wouldn't make it easy for her.

"Thought it'd be good to know," she defended with a shrug, "so I'd know what to expect."

He nodded, but he didn't look like he had bought her explanation. "At the worst scenario, it might induce a mild version of a psychedelic crisis," he explained, his eyes still fixated on hers, "or cause an anxiety crisis—or just basic disorientation and nausea—"

Oh God. Just like she had thought. Just like Jason had feared of. She nodded briskly. "Will I be still consciousness?" she asked. If somehow she lost all of her consciousness, then there might be some way she would get over it without any—accident.

But she had never been that lucky. Bruce gave her a look again, and she understood it all. "Not really," he answered, "But you won't be entirely unconsciousness, either. There will be some—residue."

Oh well… She gave out a sigh, and prepared herself. "Do you remember me telling you I don't like small places once?" she asked, not without waiting an answer, "I wasn't kidding. I really don't like small places." She shrugged. "Prison does that to you, I guess," she said, "Anyways, I really don't like it, and uh—" Her eyes ran away, her words finally faltering, "Uh—if something like that happens," she made a vague gesture with her hand, letting out another sigh, "You need to keep me calm."

She wished she could dig herself a hole and hid herself, because Bruce was giving her that look again as something softened his features. Then with two mere words, he promised, "I will."

She liked the simplicity of his answer, not making a big deal of it. She didn't want to think of it this anymore, she just wanted to get over it. She had made a decision nine months ago, for staying even though she wasn't sure of the reason anymore, but she still knew her objective. She wanted to be a part of the solution, not of the problem. She didn't want to cause him more problems.

With the last thought, she also admitted she wasn't fair to him, not really. Another sigh at her tongue, she looked around, the off-road track that caved with dirt and earth; not a regular path. She had to get back into the road again. She recalled Cathleen's words whenever the older woman thought she had done something wrong; _don't stray off the path, girl, or you'll be lost._ She had never wanted to get lost, but she had never wanted to follow the footsteps that had laid before her, too, like her choices wouldn't matter. There was a reason she had opted a hotel room to live, instead of just renting an apartment, but staying here—accepting this life was a choice, as well, and she needed to get her shit together.

"Bruce," she called, turning to him again, "When this's all ended, I'll move to the penthouse," she announced. His attention snapped at her, he looked at her carefully, his eyebrows clenched further. She didn't look away. "Look, about last night—"

"Valerie—" he started, but she didn't let him.

"No," she cut him off, shaking her head, "You were right, and I'm sorry. I—I should've thought of it. I don't want to act like—I'm in some—adolescent insanity." She smiled, exhaling out. "I want to be a part of—this life. I don't want to cause you more trouble. I want to help." He opened his mouth again, probably to oppose, but she again didn't let him. It was better if he didn't speak right now, not before she finished.

"No, I don't, Bruce, but it's not only my fault, either," she told him with a hard look. She couldn't help if he kept her out of the loop, and he knew it.

His face stiffening, he nodded. "You passed the test," he said then, "Soon Fox will hire you as our corporate detective, and when this Cameron Reese debate is closed—"

"You won't keep me out?" she asked.

Bruce took a step toward her, and held her gently by her shoulders. "Valerie," he said, "I want you to be a part of my life, too. I'm just—worried for you."

She shrugged. "That's what's meant to be a team, I suppose," she said, "I'm worried for you, _too,"_ she admitted, then her eyes found him, and she added with a small voice, "each night." Letting out a sigh, she walked out of his grip, "Guess we'll get used to it."

She thought of her last words, and wished they were correct, and soon they got used to it, because she knew Bruce wouldn't really worry about her constantly. At the end, it was about survival, at the end, all was about that; a matter simply between life and death. And, she couldn't be the cause of his. As if her thoughts were heard, Bruce's phone squalled.

With a slight frown, he looked at the slim device, and answered, "Alfred." As he listened to the older man at the other side, the slight frown had become wider, as the habitual lines around his lips deepened along with it.

Her own eyes narrowed as well. "I'm on my way," Bruce said grimly before he closed the line, his face closing entirely.

"What?" Valerie asked, walking to him closer, "What happened?"

"Lawton," Bruce replied with a deep rasp, his eyes fixated on hers, "He's just walked into Hopkins Medicine."

She felt blood drained off her veins. Daniel. The Homeland Security agent had found Daniel.


	5. Part II-I

**Part II. I —** **"Preparations"**

* * *

Two days later, in deep cover Valerie was hurrying in the busy streets, forcing her way among throng of people with waving hands. From behind, she could sense Alfred's presence, as he trailed after her with a safety distance.

Sure to his word, Bruce's cover was absolute. Even with the skin mask that had turned her features sharper, she looked nothing identical to blonde Cameron Reese, in fact with the black jet chin-length wig with bangs she more looked like Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction. Still she kept her eyes dutifully away from any glass or reflected surface. It was odd to see her former "look", weirder that she was deep in the cover with it, but Bruce was adamant.

He needed to give Gordon something to prove her existence to necessary parties, hence this little excursion in the city, Alfred on her tail, taking her pictures in secret.

The last news, that the Homeand Security agent had discovered the only real link between her and Cameron Reese had made Bruce harder to deal with. He stalked the manor in his usual doom and gloom, like a bomb ready to go off, pushing them with the plan until he became satisfied, and good god, he wasn't easily. He'd made Jason and Rory study a Gotham map whole day in the study, then made them memorize each street, avenue, alley in the area of Washington Bridge and Metropolitan Hospital, especially Rory as the younger man was going to follow the cortege for additional back-up. Jason was stationed in the hospital, waiting for their arrival, as Bruce was going to cover her with RRT team. The tension was stretched out thin between them, like a living breathing thing. She had become accustomed to it, but with her father and Rory things were more difficult.

This morning Bruce had sent them away to survey the streets on real time, while sending her with Alfred to prepare the folder he was going to give Gordon tonight as he stayed in the cave to do research for Floyd Lawton. Valerie had a suspicion that he had done it also because to create himself a breathing space. He was a lone wolf, mostly dealing stuff on his own, then suddenly he had—a team.

Valerie could understand him, she really could, as she had been a lone wolf herself too, before their paths had collided. One of the reasons why she had wanted to go to a hotel instead of the apartment had been that; she hadn't wanted something—permanent. She was never good at staying in one place, anyway, and the hotel idea had seemed perfect. On their own accounts, her eyes caught the tallest silhouette in the heart of the city to her left side, spiraling in the sky, a monument of in stainless steel and glass. The Wayne Penthouse.

Briefly she imagined herself living there, but the notion was as weird as before, perhaps even weirder than living in a mansion, but she had made up her mind. She wasn't going to make life harder for Bruce. If that was what it took, then she was going to find a way to adapt. She always did.

When they turned back, Alfred went to the cave to prepare her photos, as she went to take off the mask off her face. In front of the mirror, she pulled off the fashionable wig, and her darker brown fell off brushing her shoulders. Her gaze stuck at the reflection, she watched herself for a moment, the way sharp lines brought out her features then slowly she peeled the mask off her skin, and looked at the face came out from beneath.

Softer lines, firm yet gentle, it looked—familiar. Her eyes burned, and swallowing she closed them, and gave out a deep breath. It was okay, she told herself, it was okay. Everything was okay.

She opened her eyes, cleaned the heavy smoky make-up, and went to look for Bruce. Expectedly, she found him in the cave.

He was hunched over the computers, gazing at the screens, his profile seemed carved out of granite. "Hey," she called him, approaching to his work station, "Got anything?"

His attention staying at the screens, he nodded. "I'm in DHS databases."

She arched an impressed eyebrow. He had hacked his way into the federal databases. Though she wouldn't be surprised, not really. She leaned over. Over the screens, there was an insignia of two silver daggers crossed over each other, with an arrow in the middle of them, circled with a stylized black ribbon. Over the ribbon, "ARGENT" was scripted in elegant silver letters. She turned to Bruce. "What's this?"

"I'm not quite sure," Bruce admitted with a low voice, "I found a classified section—" He pressed into another key, "States it's a branch that deals with black ops—" His eyes skipped toward her, "Floyd Lawton's listed as the team leader."

Valerie sighed, as if their life wasn't already complicated enough. Bruce pressed another key and the insignia disappearing, the shot of the man Gordon had given Bruce his photo appeared over the screen. Clad in the army uniform, the man looked younger, but his eyes—the clean, clear blues were the same, as the stony expression over his face.

"Floyd Lawton. He's a former green beret," Bruce debriefed, "Recruited after 9/11." He halted for a second, and Valerie waited. Whatever he was going to say, she knew she wasn't going to like it. "Codename is Deadshot," he continued, "his signature; a clean shot at the head, and it's given because he never misses." He looked at her. "He'd assassinated nine high profile Al-Qaeda operatives in the US soils during the last five years."

Nine! In the US soils! She stared at the photo bewildered. So that was the man who was after Batman. And her. In silence, she flopped in the chair next to her. She didn't know what to say, words suddenly didn't seem enough. The stakes had raised too high. She had thought things would return to normal, but this wasn't normal, not even for their standards.

Bruce took a yellow dossier from the counter, and stood up. "Alfred printed your photos," he said, "I need to give them Gordon." He started walking to the dressing cabinet to suit up.

Her eyes found the deadly man over the screens again, looking back at her unflinched. A fear she had never felt before grabbed her in the chest, leaving her breathless. She shifted in the chair, and called after him hastily.

"Bruce!" Halting in his steps, he turned. "Be careful," she told him, her voice scratching because suddenly her throat felt so dry.

Looking at her back, Bruce nodded in answer.

* * *

Sixty two stories above, the night was silent, the usual sounds of the night couldn't reach to this up to the heights. It was also peaceful, but James Gordon didn't feel like it. He wasn't in peace, hell, he couldn't even remember the last time he felt that divine feeling since the last year, and things had turned to worse after Barbara's departure… He shook his head, turning his attention to the darkened sky. No, he needed to focus, not dwell in his miseries. Every one of them had sacrificed something; they were still sacrificing.

Even that selfish woman, apparently.

His eyebrows pulled together into a frown. The plan Batman had in his mind, it was patently his, downright suicidal, and risky beyond belief, but Gordon had never seen him risk another life than his; he had codes, codes that were impossible to break off.

And it wasn't still the weirdest part. The weirdest part was that woman was accepting it. It was possible that Batman had used his usual tricks to comply her with his orders, but that didn't explain why she hadn't come to them for protection, instead had escaped from them, not to mention had lied in her first interrogation. Gordon wasn't sure before, but after he had seen Batman's subtle but telling reaction at the day he had informed the taciturn hero that she had escaped from the safe house, he'd become certain. She hadn't been lying. She knew who he was. Yet, she still had protected him.

And it made no sense at all.

"The Commissioner," the gruff voice called him from behind in their usual greeting.

Gordon turned and eyed the Dark Knight. He was crouched at the the little maintenance ladder that led to the mechanical room of the building, his cape folded around him, creating the whole image. The last year had aged him, though, his constant fight taking its toll, yet the man still stood with the same reserve he always had, unmovable, unstoppable, even with a DHS agent on his tail. Without another word, Batman jumped down, and landed in front of him in a smooth motion one couldn't expect from the heavy armored man.

He held out a folder. With a suspicious glance, Gordon took it. Bowing his head, he opened it, and his eyes saw surveillance photos, of the woman he had been thinking about in the last hour.

She looked different. The shots were taken as she walked along the busy streets, her body giving off an agitated fiber, her features mostly covered with a big black sunglasses, but he could still see the wary glances she was darting around under her bowed head or over her shoulder. His eyebrows furrowed more. She really didn't look like the woman he had watched studying the fire escape plans to escape a mob to set up to lynch her.

"She's been in the city?" Gordon asked. Somehow the notion was surprising, he had believed the woman was out of the city, even out of States. Gotham was dangerous for her.

Batman didn't confirm, yet didn't decline, either. "Start the operation at 2100 hours," he only instructed, "You'll receive a cable that will state that she's on her way to Washington Bridge. The accident will be there at 21.30 hours," he informed further in a one rasping breath, then looked at him. "Did you arrange who will be witnesses?"

Gordon gave him another glance, then started counting, "Major Sawyer, obviously, as she's the head of MCU, and me," he continued, "and, uh—I was thinking Bullock from Homicide." Despite his many—problems, Homicide Department Chef was a good man, a good cop, if anything had gone bad, Gordon knew he could trust him to do what was best for everyone.

Batman gave him a slight nod of approval. "Lawton will probably tag along too," Gordon remarked, looking at the armored man. The eyes behind the cowl became guarded, more than usual, if it was possible. "He's grown—obsessed with Reese."

Then he saw it. A subtle reaction, a little twitch at the left corner of his mouth, something so small, so brief, but it was there, he had seen it. "Reese—" Gordon pressed further, "How can you be sure she will—cooperate?"

"She will," Batman rasped out, "Leave her to me. I deal with her."

And it was the exact thing he had said before. Gordon walked to him, his eyes still fixated at the darkened eyes behind the cowl. He was still looking for something, anything over those features visible to his sight, but he could find more expression over a stone than his face.

"It doesn't make sense," he stated slowly, standing a few inches away, "Why she accepted this? Why she isn't coming to us for negotiation for safety? Why she had lied at the first place?" He took a step closer. "What's that you're keeping from me?"

The darkened eyes found his. "She can't come to the police," Batman rasped in a low breath, "because she's a con artist."

* * *

"Bruce Wayne," Valerie's voice cried out in his ear, as Gordon stared at him, stupefied, "what the hell are you doing?"

Bruce took no notice of it, not now, not when Gordon had started asking dangerous, very dangerous questions. Goddammit! Nothing, nothing wasn't going well with his life. Gordon was a smart man, he had always known. Aside his kind nature, that had been also the reason why Bruce had told him almost three years ago "Now we're two."

"Cameron Reese" and "Wayne" names had a lot of common points. She worked for Wayne Enterprises at the time she had discovered Batman's identity, and had saved by Bruce Wayne himself. And later, she had protected his identity. Gordon was smart to connect the dots. He needed to deflect his questioning, while giving his suspicious mind enough reason for her cooperation. Or else— He looked at the commissioner.

"You noticed something was amiss with her," Batman started with a deep grumble, as Valerie started making another round of objections from the other side of the line. With a flicker of his finger, he muted her. When he returned to the cave, he was going to hear for this, but for now, he wanted his ear—in peace. She was so much of a distraction now, and apparently they would need to have that _talk_ again.

"The real Cameron was born in '79 and died three days after her birth," he continued, his voice dropping even further in his distinctive rasp, "She stole her identity. Her registration to the court, and the bar, her Harvard Almanac…they're all fake."

Gordon frowned. "For what purpose?"

And this was the tricky part… How their life had crossed, and Wayne name stood in the middle of everything. "She was trying embezzling money," he rasped out vaguely.

Gordon frowned more. "From Wayne Enterprises?"

He didn't answer, but like always his silence was an answer, too. He wanted to curse, but there was nothing could be done. He did what he had to. They needed to kill off "Cameron Reese", now more than ever. That man, he couldn't let that man start a hunt after Valerie. After 9/11, the former green beret had joined to the newly formed DSH himself. In his file, Bruce saw noted during the Tower's collapse he had lost someone close, had become obsessed with his duty, and could not be stopped when he was tasked with a mission.

And this time his mission was to catch Batman, dead or alive.

"Yes," he admitted in a guttural whisper, his mood turning darker, then steered the topic, "She'd escaped because she was afraid if she stayed with the police, her cover would have blown up."

Gordon, however, still shook his head. "You're the big fish," he said, "She could ask for amnesty in exchange of information," he continued, his eyes on his, "How can you trust she won't do that?"

Without moving an inch, Bruce kept the commissioner's eyes. "We've come to an understanding," he rasped, "She'll stay in line—" He moved closer to the edge of the rooftop, "Make sure the task force be at the bridge at nine," he ordered before he dived in the sky.

When he returned the cave, an agitated Valerie almost jumped upon him. "Why did you cut me off?" she shouted, her eyes lighted with fire.

Bruce took off the cowl, fixing at her a hard glare. He didn't have time to deal with this. He really didn't. "Valerie, stay focus on the accident," he told her firmly, "I'll deal with rest." She opened her mouth, but he turned to Alfred, "Did you move the spare suit and Batpod to the Faraday hideout?" he asked.

Stationed at the Faraday Street, the hideout was the closest one he had in the proximity of the Metropolitan Hospital so he had instructed Alfred to move his equipment there for any emergency. This Lawton—he was going to be a problem, and it was time Batman met with his hunter.

Alfred nodded. "Yes, sir," he answered, "They're at ready."

Bruce nodded back, and walked to his dressing cabinet, already starting taking off the pieces of his armor, but Valerie followed him. "Bruce—" she called him from behind, "Gordon—what's happening with him?"

His fingers stiffened at his shoulder blades armor, Bruce gave her a look. "It's okay—" he said, "I got it."

"Got it?" she cried back, "You told him I am a con artist?!" she all but shouted at him.

With a swift motion, he turned to her, and closed in on her. "It had to be done," he growled at her face, "And how many goddamn times will we need to have this goddamn talk?"

Her eyes narrowed with anger, she sent him a look like a dagger, then shook her head. "Fuck you, Bruce Wayne," she hissed, before she passed by him, hitting his shoulder with hers.

His jaw almost creaked up. Shaking his head, he stalked to the cabinet, banging the doors close behind him. Inside, he threw the armor piece at the metal walls. The metal crashed at each other with a loud clatter that covered the deep growl tearing out of him.

* * *

The next day, Valerie kept her distance. Not only from Bruce, but from everyone else. She woke up early, but it was raining, instead of going to jog outside, she hit the gym. Inside the spacious, breathed, clean room that was full with the sports equipment in the latest fashion, she eyed the thread mill, but then decided she didn't want to run, no, she wanted to hit something.

She walked to the sandbag at the left corner of the hall, and picked up the boxing gloves. She wrapped them in her hands, raised her shoulders up toward her chin, and started hitting the bag in a slow tempo, getting her bearings. Soon, she picked up her speed.

Sweat started damping her hair and clothes, and her muscle started aching with each fist, but still she didn't stop. It felt fucking nice. Over her eyes, there wasn't even a target, she just liked—hitting. Everyone could be her target; Bruce, Jason, that man…she wasn't picky.

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty is mad, I imagine," Jason called smoothly behind her, "Poor bag."

She stopped, turned around, and looked at her father with a seething look, breathing hard. "Go away," she forced out between breaths, "I'm not done yet."

Jason smiled. "Our Prince Charming's waiting us in the study. Wants to debrief the last time."

Her expression soured even more. "Don't call him that," she hissed through another breath.

Jason's smile grew wider. "But it's just like a fairytale," he said with a smarmy voice, "Project the Rescue the Princess. You're the Sleeping Beauty, presumed death, and he's the Prince that will wake you up." As his smile turned a wilder smirk, he winked at her, "All we need now is a kiss."

She looked at him, shaking her head. "Really, do you think it's funny?" she asked.

His smirk fading, her father looked at her. "I'm trying to cheer you up."

"You're making fun of me," she shot back, taking off her gloves. She threw them away, and started walking out of the gym.

Jason caught her at her arm, before she reached the door. "Hey, sweetheart—"

She pulled her arm free, and almost cut him off, but before she opened her mouth, the door opened, and Bruce stood at the threshold, looking at them.

A frown immediately pulled his eyebrows together. Just great, just fucking great. Bruce turned to her father. "Jason," he told her father, "Can you excuse us for a moment? Alfred's in the study room. We're coming up in a moment."

Stiffly, Jason nodded. He walked out the gym, and Bruce shifted aside and closed the door behind. He then turned, and looked at her. "Valerie—" he started, but this time she cut him off.

"Save it," she told him flatly, "I know, you're sorry about last night."

The frown grew deeper in his crease. "Actually, I am not." Her eyes widened, looking at him. "I'm just tired…having to tell you that I'd never purposely do something that would hurt you, Valerie," he repeated, taking a step closer. He looked at her, his expression softening. She let out a sigh, drooping her chin to her chest. "I had to tell Gordon because he's a smart man, and he's wondering about—us. He needs a reason for your cooperation."

She gave him a look under her bowed head. "Then why did you cut off my link?" she questioned.

"Because you talk too much."

Her head snapped up at him. "What?" she exclaimed.

He gave out a contained sigh. "My concentration—" he murmured, then his eyes darted around, as he let out another sigh. Valerie looked at him, her eyes narrowing. He looked—he looked, it was hard to tell. He looked like as if—defeated. He swallowed lightly, then his eyes turned to her again. There was something else in his eyes now, not defeated, but fierce… burning.

Her eyes stuck on him, she swallowed. "I'm trained in five different self-discipline technique to quell down any distraction, disturbance, or diversion, but—" Looking at her, his words halted for a second, "but I—can't shut off your voice."

She blinked a few times, trying to understand if she had heard him correct. She raised her arms, and opened her palms in the air as he bowed his head, as if to run away from her gaze. "So you cut me off—when I become too much distracting?" she questioned.

Under his bowed head, he gave her a look, then he shrugged. A smile blossomed over her lips, and she nodded. "All right, I'm taking this as a compliment," she told him the next second.

He lifted his head, and looked at her back, then gave him a smile small. "You should," he whispered out.

Suddenly breathing had become again a problem. She really wished he stopped saying her things like this, things that were making funny things in her stomach. They looked at each other for another second, before he cleared his throat, and gestured upside. "Jason and Rory are waiting for us," he said, his voice low but clear.

She nodded quickly. "Right—another debrief." She jolted toward the door, and opened it, "do I really need to?" she asked, walking out of the spacious room, looking up at him, "I need to take shower, and dye my hair." She'd decided to turn to Cameron a redhead for the cover.

Inclining his head, Bruce looked back at her, then asked, "What's the angle you hit the barriers?"

She let out a snort-sigh, "Really?"

Angling his head again, he merely gave her another look.

"40 degree," she answered.

"Speed?"

"35 mph."

"When will you take the pill?" Bruce continued as she dutifully answered each question, calling a compromise. After all, that had been always the case with them since the beginning; they always managed to reach an agreement, mostly. Satisfied with her answers, Bruce pulled out of his pocket a cuff bracelet in rose golden and handed it out to her. First she looked at him in question, then understanding Bruce Wayne wasn't someone who would distribute gifts without a reason, she took it.

"It's a heart rate monitor," Bruce explained, as she clasped around her wrist the four inch wide, well-knit bracelet in the Hellenistic feature; something that Queens would wear. She heaved out a silent sigh. Once again giving her a tool to use in a mission, Bruce Wayne managed to be—sentimental.

"It'll give us your pulse," he continued, reaching to the bracelet. "I also hid the pill inside it." He touched the left side, and a tiny hidden compartment on the top of it opened, and a little white pill appeared inside. "I want it on your person. Usually CIA field agents carry the pill inside the molar, but I wanted something—" Pausing for a second, he looked at her, "—simpler."

She laughed, and raised her arm to show off her wrist. "Better than breaking my tooth, thank you very much." He reflected back a little smile back with commenting as they started walking again. They followed the corridor to the study for a half of minute, in silence, before she broke it with a covert glance at him. "I found an alias," she announced out of blue, with the same fiber of casualness.

Briefly halting on his steps, he turned to her, but there was no casualness in his figure. "Alias?" he asked back, a frown appearing above his crease.

"Yeah," she shrugged, "You'll be close to Gordon, and I'd rather prefer if you don't call me Valerie beside him."

He gave her a terse look. "I wasn't going to," he countered, starting walking again, "What's wrong with Cameron?"

"Aside that it wasn't my real name?"

"Valerie isn't, either," he pointed out as they took a turn to left in the corridor.

"The difference is, Captain Obvious," she retorted sarcastically, "Gordon doesn't know it." She paused for a second, a meaningful smile forming over her lips. "Besides, you have Bats," she remarked, "I want something, too." Before Jason started calling her Briar Rose or something. That was another thing with her father, the nicknames he gave to people stuck, for any proof one could always ask Rory. She knew most of people called him now "Robin" instead of "Tim Drake" because Jason had deemed it more fun.

Bruce's look though grew more suspicious after her declaration. "What do you want?" he asked tentatively, studying her with careful eyes.

"Spectre," she answered without hesitance.

Bruce stopped in front of the study's door, staring at her, and repeated, "Spectre?" There was an incredulous tone in his voice now, something that made her very—pleased with her choice.

Her lips curled up wider. "Being a ghost and whatnot—" she said, shrugging, then took a step toward him. "Sounds good, doesn't it?" she whispered out, "Batman and Spectre." She smiled further, daringly suggestive as she neared to him closer. "Hmm…perhaps you should build me a Suit, too, darling, then we can fight against crime side by side, like real partners."

No words, no words could explain the expression on Bruce's face, and she might be mad, real crazy, to find the stony look, enough to kill, he was giving her actually cute. Too cute for her well-being. She shot out a laugh, throwing her head backward, and mock-hit him playfully at the shoulder. "Gotcha!"

The clenched eyebrows loosened up a bit, but he still looked at her with his frown, without a word. "Come on—" she said, still laughing, "It was a good one. That look on your face—" She shook her head, bowing it, "I'll never forget it." Her eyes found his, and she stopped laughing. "No, Bruce," she said, lifting her head back at him, "there's only one open slot for a masked hero around here, and it's you."

* * *

Standing in front of the study, Bruce couldn't open the door, as her last words echoed in his ears in an infinite loop. _And it's you._

When he had heard "Batman and Spectre" his first, basic, primal instinct had been to throw her in the cave, under lock and key. Sometimes that thought had crossed over his mind, but each time he had disregarded it. Valerie was different than him. He'd never been sure of her real reasons to stay nine months ago. He knew she wanted to have a place in this life, she wanted to have _more_ , but they had never talked about that "more". What she expected from future, he didn't know. How could he? He barely knew what he expected from future himself anymore.

But this…being a masked vigilante… He knew it wasn't why she had decided to stay. No. She wanted to help, but it wasn't a battle she could fight, that she wanted to fight. And Bruce damn well preferred to keep it that way. They all had strengths in different manners. He needed her, he wanted her in his life, but not as stalking the darkened alleys with a mask like a ghost—

Spectre.

It was a good alias, he had to give it to her.

A small smile pulled out his lips. He also had to give it to her; she always found a way to surprise him. He opened the door, and walked into the study. Inside, things was how he had left; Jason and Alfred sharing a silent "look-contest", while Rory acted like he didn't notice it. Jason was eating another apple, this time his army knife hidden in his pocket, and there was a smirk over his lips as he stared back at Alfred, all edge and teeth.

Speaking of aliases, perhaps they should call the older man Diogenes the Cynic, too, Bruce briefly thought. A citizen of the world, Jason's virtue was better revealed in action than in theory. Walking to the whiteboard in the corner, Bruce recalled the letters that kept coming, even though Valerie always declined to accept them. Jason's stubbornness had been what made Bruce certain about the former guerrilla's feelings for his daughter. Once Bruce had asked him why he kept sending the letters, knowing that she wouldn't accept, and Jason's answer wasn't something he'd ever forget. He had laughed, and said, "Forget the letters. They're bullshit. She doesn't need to read them. What she needs is to know that I'm not letting it go. I won't make the same mistake, boy."

Bruce didn't exactly know what "mistake" Jason had referred to, but he had understood enough. He wasn't letting her go, not without a fight first. The same thing he had done nine months ago.

Turning his eyes from Jason, Bruce stood beside the whiteboard where the enlarged maps of the area of the Metropolitan Hospital and Washington Bridge plastered together with a lot of side notes on yellow post-its. "You surveyed the area?" he asked, gazing at the map, his thoughts turning to the mission ahead.

Jason threw the apple's kernel into the ashtray on the coffee table, and looked at him. The smirk had wiped off of his smile, in its place now stood a grimace. The older man nodded. "Yes," he answered, "the whole day."

Bruce nodded back. "As soon as we arrive to the hospital, you infiltrate the mechanical room," he went over the plan for the last time, then turning to Rory, he pointed at the Faraday hideout on the board, circled yellow, "and you leave the bike in the hideout." It wasn't the first time they had had this talk, as Valerie had put it, but he had to be sure. They were going to follow the cortege from behind, and get involved in case of any—surprise. This Lawton, Bruce knew the DHS agent was going to be a problem, he only couldn't estimate in which capacity he was going to be. So he covered all of his bases.

"Alfred moved a van there yesterday," he continued, "pick it up and come to the back exit—" His finger trailed toward to the said exit on the map, "You'll retrieve us from there."

Wordlessly, Rory nodded, but Jason gave him a look, his frown growing tighter. "What about the Plan B?" he asked, "If something goes bad in the hospital, how we'll extricate her?" he questioned, then his voice turned as pointed as his look, "I assume you're placing me in the mechanical room for a reason."

With a frown, too, Bruce looked at him back. During the week, he'd been drilling Valerie, but he'd kept Jason and Rory mostly in the dark, aside the basic plan and the route. He'd never needed to explain his plans before, both Alfred and Gordon knew to carry out his demands and orders when they were needed, so it was a bit difficult to play the teammate, especially when he had other things to deal with, like vindictive former green berets on his trails.

But this wasn't about him, not really, and they weren't Gordon and Alfred, either. "Alfred will cut off the power for the whole section of the city, and you'll shut off the auxiliary systems in the mechanical room," he explained his contingent plan, and continued, "I'll initiate the evacuation protocol in the systems, and then will take her out in the confusion."

"So you're also hacked into the city's power grid?" Jason asked, a smirk returning to his lips.

Bruce merely looked at him. Jason smiled at him, in the same way Valerie had just done a few minutes ago. Father and daughter, despite their many differences, they were still so much alike, and Bruce could always trust that. "What if there is another generator or something like that stashed hidden in somewhere?" Jason asked, proving himself once again just like her daughter.

In answer, Bruce only gave him another look again.

"Right," Jason laughed again, standing up, "If there was you would have already known it." He looked at him back, before he started walking to the door, "All right then, let's get started."


	6. Part II-II

**Part II. II — "The Grim Red Line"**

* * *

The headquarters in the Police Plaza in the city center was having a normal Friday night, a bustling hive of police officers and criminals, but Gordon wasn't aware of any of that, his eyes fixed at the wall clock, measuring time as it passed away, the long thin minute hand inching toward the south over the clock face, as his agitation grew worse.

Just ten minutes, and then it would start. His eyes skipped toward the encrypted phone he'd hid under his desk on his lap, and he read the message again. "Be prepared. Spectre is out."

Spectre. Gordon didn't know the codename, but he'd still gotten it. She was out, driving to the Washington Bridge, and soon the "eyes" in the city would catch her. The problem with that he wasn't sure whose eyes else would see her, too. He had tried to keep this low, but it was going to pick up attention, he knew.

Perhaps that was what Batman wanted, making this as real as possible. Another thing Gordon had noticed after their last talk. The Dark Knight—he was worried, not in his usual fashion, or just because of obvious reasons. No, he was specifically worried—for her. It wasn't the same way he had watched the stoic man had lost his reserves when the Joker had threatened the later junior DA, but it was still there, under that little twitch of lips, inside the cold heat of the steely darkened eyes. The Dark Knight cared for the con-artist.

His hand went to the folder on his desk, and he opened yellow dossier, going through the photos Batman had given her. He found one that didn't have her eyes covered with sunglasses, and he looked at her.

 _Well maybe Batman can save you_ , he recalled his own words, as she looked at him dumb stricken after the shot from the mob, _maybe Batman can save you…_

A thud on the door erupted his thoughts, as the next second the door to his office opened, and the intimidating figure of the Major Sawyer appeared over the threshold, "Commissioner," the head of MCU fired off, "That woman—Reese, we got her."

Standing up, Gordon faked surprise. "What—Where?"

"On to the Washington Bridge," Sawyer answered, "The CCTVs got someone like in the surveillance photos."

Throwing the dossier in his hands, Gordon ran toward her. "Get your men ready and order a SRT," he instructed to the MCU's leader, "and Sawyer, keep it low. I don't want any tail right now."

Her head titled aside, the Major's coal-colored eyes gave him a look, searching and probing. Then she nodded. The Afro-American woman had come where she stood now fighting with nails and teeth, and that was why Gordon had preferred her to follow up his footsteps in the Major Crime Unit. MCU had been his child, and he couldn't trust it to anyone, and honest to a fault, he could always trust Margaret Sawyer when it came to be a good cop.

Gordon shot a last look toward his desk, where their person of interest's photos ran over, and his words echoed in his mind the last time before he left his office—

 _Well, maybe Batman can save you…_

* * *

His face already covered with Nomex balaclava, Bruce prepared in the armory in the police headquarters together with twenty specialized police officers. Some of them joked with each other, but others mostly went over the protocol without making a fuss, and Bruce followed their example.

Inside the balaclava, his ear already was covered with his wireless radio, as he listened to Valerie's heavy breathing. She had tried to put up a brave face, of course, but now she was losing her cool. With a flick of his wrist, he cast a glance down at his watch, and saw that her heart rate had risen forty percent in the last minute. Tucking flashbangs, stringers and tear gas grenades inside the standard issue ballistic vest's pockets, he shifted aside. "Val—" he halted for a split of second, then chose to go with her codename, "Spectre," he ordered, "stay calm."

"I'm calm," came her answer in a breathless rasp, "I'm calm, I'm fucking calm!"

Bruce fixed the straps of the bulletproof vest, turning away from his company more, bowling his head, "Valerie—" he started, switching back to her name, but before he could continue, she spoke first.

"I know you won't let anything happen to me," she rasped out, "I trust you," she said, as something pinched in his chest underneath the rigid plates he wore over his body, "Besides, if you did—" She let out a fake laugh, "I'll hunt you down forever, darling. I'm Spectre."

Bruce played along. He took the helmet, and left the armory to find Gordon outside the HQ. "You're a wraith."

"A terrible one," Valerie agreed, letting out another laugh, but this time it sounded more sincere.

Outside, Bruce walked to Gordon's black armored van, and sat behind the wheels. Gordon's driver ran after him, "Hey—you!" the younger man called out, "What the hell are you doing?"

Bruce shot a look at Gordon who stood at the other side together with the MCU's Major, then understood what was happening immediately. He ran toward them. "It's okay, son," he interjected, "You go backside," he ordered, "MCU runs this op." The younger officer went to backside of the van, as Gordon came to the passenger seat. Bruce raised up the black partition inside the van, then took off the helmet, his face hidden with his balaclava.

Gordon studied him as the cortege left the HQ, and Bruce pressed on the gas pedal, taking the van out of the curb at the highest speed. Gordon grabbed the handle over his head with a grumble. "Oh, it's really you," the older man muttered under his breath.

"We've left HQ," Bruce informed, his eyes fixed ahead on the road, "Wing One – Two, maintain your distance," he instructed Jason and Rory with the aliases he had chosen for the duo, "Spectre—keep driving."

"Spectre?" Gordon rose an eyebrow, a trace of humor in his voice, "is that a codename or what?"

"Lawton," Bruce rasped out instead of answering that, "Has he showed up?"

The humor vanished from Gordon's voice. "No—" he answered stiffly, "I tried to keep it low, but I'd be surprised if his moles haven't already informed him."

Bruce nodded, a slight, terse motion of neck. "His moles—can you flush them out?"

"I can try," Gordon answered, "But this is Homeland Security. I can't dig deep." He paused, giving out a repressed sigh, as if the weight on his shoulders had become too much, and in a way they had, "The Mayor's pressing down, too. They really want to catch you, and send that bastard to the—"

As if he realized what talk he had started having, Gordon stopped suddenly, turning his eyes away. That was another thing they had never talked before; the Act 1010. In the sudden silence in the car, Bruce took out his palm screener, and handed it out to Gordon. The red dots were on the pursuit of the single green one at the visual map of Gotham; his trackers, and Valerie. "Keep her in the position," he ordered Gordon.

"Are these—us?" Gordon asked, frowning upon the screener. Silence again was his answer. "You've been tracking us," Gordon announced, his tone taking a hitch on accusing, "That's how you always know how to avoid us," he continued, then gave him a look. "How?" he questioned.

Still, he kept silence. "But you can't see Lawton or his men, right?" Gordon probed further.

"No," he answered this time. Not yet. "It's only for GCPD."

"Well, lucky us," Gordon shot back. There was again another silence as Bruce drove toward the Washington Bridge, then Gordon slowly muttered next to him, "Maybe Batman can save you—"

His eyes skipped to the older man for a second. Gordon stared at him back. "I told her that after someone tried to shoot her outside the GNN building," Gordon stated. Bruce cast at the Commissioner another glance. Something was wrong, Gordon…the questions were running in the older man's head, the wheels turning… "Nine months ago," then he said, "Wayne Foundation had made a generous donation of cell phones and police radios."

Bruce exhaled a small, sharp breath, but still kept his eyes trained on the road. Fuck it! It was a good convenience that his ear was completely silent as he had kept the radio only one-sided, so Valerie couldn't hear what Gordon had declared, and got even more agitated.

Over the windshield, he could see now a flash of the blue, the Ford Mustang Valerie had been driving toward the bridge that lay almost a mile ahead of her. Turning his mind off, he called her. There was nothing more important than her now. If Gordon had figured out his secret, he would deal it with it later. "Spectre—" he said, quickly calculating the route, "You're in sight. Speed up."

The sirens and police lights blazed in the air, as Gordon turned back to the road, too. "Wing One – Two, cover her," he ordered Rory and Jason too, coming behind them with a safety distance.

Ford Mustang sped up. She was a good driver, but she was still keeping herself restricted, making rogue mistakes that would justify her hitting the guardrails. Other armored police vans passed beside them, heading toward her, and her speed accelerated. She still kept her cool, keeping in the line, but he saw a black BMW 5.20 nearing at her from the left side, and his stomach coiling into a stone, he understood the trouble was coming even before the massive car slammed at her side.

Her scream rung in his ear. "Ahhhhh-!"

The black car slammed into her again, trying to corner her toward the embankment where the final road to bridge lay over. "Spectre!" Bruce called in hurriedly, speeding up as well, "Report."

"It's—him!" she cried out, as the BMW pushed her again to the right with another crash, "It's Lawton."

* * *

The impact erupted at her side as the metal of car curled up against her, pain blackening her sight. Another scream tore off her throat as she felt wetness. She looked down and saw that a sharp edge of the door had cut just above her left thigh. She bit her bottom lip, and pressed on the gas to get back on the track, putting some distance between her and the damn BMW.

But it was easier said than done in the rush hour evening traffic. The back of the white Hyundai ahead her enlarged dangerously over her windshield, and with hastily she flattened the brake pedal, but it was already too late. With a loud bang, she reared to the back from behind, spinning the car around its axis with the impact, blocking the road. More cars followed it, with loud tire stretching sounds as she a created a chain of accidents behind, driving forward.

Well, let's if you can pass through it, sweetheart, she laughed mentally, casting a glance back over the visor to check the BMW. Her lips flattened into a grim line as she saw the former green beret shifted easily through the mass of the messed up cars, without even breaking speed. She cursed loudly, speeding up, but in five seconds he was again at her side.

Her eyes skipped aside. The blonde man was staring at her with a deadly expression, no emotion or in his eyes. She felt her blood turning colder. Or she was just losing too much blood, she thought, throwing a quick look at her thigh. She wondered what would happen after she took the pill. The bleeding would stop? In some cases, there was bleeding post-mortum, but what if she kept bleeding for two hours?

Goddammit! Fates really must be hating her, really, _really_ hating her. He slammed into the car again, as she screamed, this time with anger more than pain. "You son of a bitch!"

The car skid out of the road again toward the embankment, as she felt the wheel pulled toward the left side, the car _trembling_. Her left tire was out of the play. From her side, she saw two anonymous black bike approaching her; Rory and Jason, but as of the moment, she wasn't sure what they could do. She needed to get to safety first. She couldn't risk it. "Deflect!" Bruce's voice exploded in her ear, "Pull back," he growled out, "I repeat, pull back!"

Pull back, right, she would like to do that, a lot. "Where exactly?" she cried out.

"I'm coming!" he growled out. She saw the black van behind her accelerating speed.

"No!" she all but shouted. No, no he couldn't come, not now… "No," she shook her head, "That's why he's toying with me. He doesn't take me out—" she talked fast, as another bang passed her, almost a tease now, "he doesn't want to catch me. He's trying to lure you out."

There was silence in her ear, and once again it was her answer. She cast out another glance at the visor, the black van approaching at the fast speed, then at the bridge ahead her. She was almost there. Her eyes shifted toward the bridge's legs, where the cage like long metal blocks rose over the embankment over a cliff along forty feet. Forty feet… She closed her eyes.

"Bruce—" she tried to keep her voice even, and failed, "Th-this skin mask—is it waterproof?"

"What?" Bruce asked back, then understanding what she was thinking, his voice roared, "No! No—stay put!"

She opened her eyes and passed the gear to R, her foot hovering over the gas pedal, "I—lied—before," she muttered, closing her eyes again, "about the backseat…It—it wasn't just—that—" A tear slipped away from her eye, but before he could say anything, or she could think, she throttled up the gas.

As the car fell free style in the Gotham River, she thought if she didn't make this out alive, at least she would pass away to the other side with one less lie.

* * *

Inside the van, cast off stone, Bruce watched the car fall over his very eyes, his mind only registering her last words; a final confession… It wasn't just that—that— His hands frantically opened the van's door, and he stormed out to the cliff, the cortege halting behind them.

Then the car hit to the water with a big splash under the bystanders wonder-struck gazes. Around him, there was a sudden chaos, as people filmed what had happened with their phones, more police cars filling the scene. Quickly, he took cover, and checked his watch.

As soon as he saw the red beating of her heart-rate, he exhaled a breath he wasn't even aware he was holding. Standing up from his cover, he started untying his vest, but Gordon halted his hands, pulling him forcefully down.

"What are you doing?" Gordon hissed at him.

"She's underwater," Bruce rasped out, "I need to get her out."

"Here—" Gordon indicated with his head, "You want to jump from forty feet after her, when all of these people are looking for you—"

He tried to pull himself free, but Gordon's hands only got tightened. "Don't be stupid, son," he whispered, "She must know what she's doing."

"She's trusted me."

Again, there was that look over Gordon's face, but this time, it wasn't probing, or searching, but only sympathetic. "She did that to protect you," Gordon said, then pointed at his watch, "and she's still alive."

Bruce exhaled a sharp breath out. Before this all ended, he was going to see that man, he swore to himself, his eyes rising toward left, where the lone tall figure gazed at the water below, his hands stuff into his pockets, his face expressionless. His lips flattened, Bruce pressed into his ear. "Wing One, Wing Two—" he barked out, "Your positions?" he questioned to regroup.

"I'm at your six o'clock," Rory answered immediately, "and Jason—he—he jumped after her."

* * *

It was cold, freezing cold. Theoretically she'd always known how to get out of a submerged car. You roll down the windows, wait until the pressure inside and outside equalize, then open the door, and swim out. A piece of cake, right? Only no one had warned her about the cold.

There was pain too, but next to freezing October chill, it was nonconsequential. October shouldn't be this cold, either, but Fates, as she already knew, had a great humor. She shook her head as more water sipped through the cracks, then she lashed out to roll down the window. Ninety seconds, she only had ninety seconds to get herself out of this tin underwater grave. She took small breaths, preparing herself for the eventual swimming to the surface, praying silently that this old beauty's windows were opened manually, but not tied to any circuit.

As soon as she lowered the window, the water started beating her. If she got out of this alive, at least she wouldn't need to worry about the condition of her body. Even alive, she'd be looking like a dead one.

She held tighter at the wheel, as the waves crashed at her mercilessly, trying to keep her head high. Even cold was better than this, but she had no other option. She couldn't unbuckle herself yet, but she tried to call in Bruce, at least to tell him that she was okay, but the damn thing was already broken. She feverishly begged the bracelet around her wrist didn't break down, either, that it'd tell him at least she was still breathing.

Soon the water raised to her chin, as breathing became too much painful, and taking a deep one, she held it, and unbuckled herself. Hastily she moved aside, and tried to open the door.

And, it didn't open. _Of course._

She tried another time, then again, and again, but it didn't give in. Fuzzily she recalled the beatings the metal door had taken before she ran down from the cliff. She thought she was crying, even though her skin was too cold and wet for her to feel tears, but she knew she was. Her head started turning, her eyes blackening, and her lungs…her lungs were burning.

Her lips cracked open on instinct for a split, and salted water burned her throat more as it slipped away inside. She shut her mouth close, but how long she could hold up…

As long as she needed to!

Her eyes snapped up, to her right side. If she couldn't open that door, then she—could try with the passenger seat—She started moving, swimming in the car, but she couldn't see the door…everything was in the dark…

Her lips cracked again, this time longer before she shut them close… No, no, she couldn't die here…. Bruce—Bruce, he couldn't, he couldn't let her go… He—would save her—like he always did.

Her hands rose, and she blindly searched for the handle, as her lungs fired even more with the lack of oxygen. Bruce—he couldn't—he couldn't leave her…

Suddenly hands grabbed her, and pulled out of the damaged car. She smiled, or at least tried, she knew it… Bruce would never let something happen to her, never.

She didn't know how long it took, or how she had managed, but when she felt the earth under her, she knew she had made it out, once again she had survived. Her battered body was convulsing, coughing, splitting water, but it was like happening to someone else. Her eyes cracked open, and she smiled at Bruce—only the face she barely saw wasn't his. "Br—Bruce?" she whispered.

"It's all right, kiddo," her father answered soothingly, taking her in his arms, "I got you."

* * *

The chaos around him only grew more at the bottom of the cliff, at coastline over the Gotham River's bank, but Bruce took no hint of it. His identity hidden with his balaclava, he stood away from the cluster of the special agents from the special response team, as they started conducting a SAR mission with USCG, boarding a Reliance class cutter. From his watch, where the red beating pulsed faintly, he quickly darted his away up for a second, and to his left, saw a scene that for a moment even made him forget about the red pulse.

His teeth gritting, he stared at Lawton, as he hovered over Gordon motionlessly, the Commissioner giving the blond man the same look Bruce was directing at him. He quickly took off his phone, and started punching a few codes to link to the Gordon's encrypted phone, but before he could finish, Jason talked to him over the radio.

"We've come to the north side," the older man informed, "and she's coming around."

At last! It had passed fifteen minutes since Jason had pulled Valerie out, and had called him. Fifteen minutes that felt like fifteen eons. Bruce then had instructed him to the north side of the cliff whereas they stood at the south. "How is she?" he asked, turning away from Gordon and Lawton, looking at north. He wanted to go to her, wanted to see her himself but he couldn't, not because he became sure everything was safe here.

"She's—okay, I guess," Jason answered with an uncharacteristic hesitance. Bruce gave the man some slack. He'd just witnessed his daughter almost committing suicide, and rushed after her down forty feet. "She's a tough girl," he continued, with more certainty, almost assuring himself. "Can I give her the pill?" Jason asked after a second, his voice now resolute, "Is it safe?"

He checked his watch again. Her heart rate seemed more stable, but still… "No—" he declined sternly, and ordered, "abort the mission." Even though her body would take it, he couldn't risk that. He had just watched her almost die, he wasn't going to watch it happen again, not now. "Take her to the hideout."

Again, there was hesitance in Jason's voice. "We might not get another chance."

"Jason," he rasped, his voice roughing a familiar edge, "pull back."

Then he heard her voice. "Br—uce—" She scratched his name out in a labored breath, "I'm fine—I can—"

"No, we're not having this discussion," he cut her off, "Jason, take her to the Faraday Street. Rory," he called the younger man, "Cover them."

"Unders—"

"What the hell—!" Jason's voice suddenly boomed, interrupting Rory's answer.

"What happened?"

He heard a faint female laugh. He closed his eyes. "She took the pill!" Jason barked out just like how he had thought.

On instinct, he raised his hand again, and watched as the beating pulse slowly faded off, until it completely stopped, and flattened into a grim red line.


	7. Part II-III

**Part II. III – "Debts"**

* * *

His blood roaring in his eardrums, Bruce hastily started the chronometer on his watch, counting down from two hours. _If you can restrain your controlling nature, I can surely restrain my own recklessness,_ he recalled her words in the cave, just before she'd made her rule about the backseat… for which she had just made a confession… which he was _not_ going to think about now. Looking at the rapidly decreasing numbers on the digital display, he focused on the plan, and called her father again.

"Jason, send me your exact position," he ordered, surveying the area. The SAR party had just left the shore, and Gordon was at the coast alone, as a few feet away from him Lawton, together with another agent from his team, was standing at the background. The hard-faced redhead woman was talking to the phone, her dark suit coat impeccably neat in the heat of the moment. Bruce recognized the DHS agent from the files. Monica Gray, codename Mercy; a testament that her last stroke was her only mercy; an interrogator's mercy. Those nine Al-Qaeda operatives Lawton had ended always had her helping _hand_.

His lips flattened as the thought of Valerie at the hand of these people ran through his mind like a fire. "Rory," he barked out, "Move to the hideout, and pick up the van," he ordered, "Jason, go to the hospital. I'm sending your position to Gordon."

"I've secured her at the shore," Jason said, "Moving now."

Bruce shot a look at the northern side, as Gordon took his phone out and checked his message. There was nothing he could do here anymore. He should move to the hospital, too, and get prepared. Soon the coroners from the Metropolitan Hospital would arrive and bring her to the morgue.

To the morgue…

Chasing away the morbid thoughts and preoccupations, he steeled his mind. She was going to be okay. In less than two hours, she was going to open her eyes, and crack a joke with a smile. In answer, he was going to…he didn't know what he would do. He might kick her ass or kiss her senseless, he wasn't sure. As of the moment, both seemed like good options.

* * *

The Commissioner adjusted his glasses over the body that peacefully lay over the pebbles on her back, making the micro camera inside the rim of glasses focused on her, a last gift from Batman.

Batman.

Gordon pushed the thought away as soon it entered in his mind. Fifteen minutes ago, he had received the message for her exact location, and moved a little group to find her at the shore toward the northern side of the gulf. A crowd though now was gathering around them.

A medical examiner was crouched at her side, checking her vitals, as Sawyer stood behind a few feet away from them with the new arrival, Homicide's chief, Major Bullock. Lawton was still next to him, together with his red haired deputy.

The medical examiner opened Reese's or Spectre, or whatever-she-called-herselfs' eyelids, flashing a penlight inside her orbs, then checked her chest. Standing up, the middle aged man shook his head. "Sorry," he said, without a trace of the emotion in his tone, the long years of the job having taken the sympathy out of his voice, leaving only hard cold facts, "Probably died before she swam to the shore. We can know for sure after autopsy."

Gordon nodded briskly, his eyes casting a look at her. Beyond the obvious differences, she still looked different, even though Gordon couldn't exactly explain. The black wig lost, her hair was now red; a dark fierce red with dark brown streaks, her features a bit softened.

He'd seen a fair of amount of death in his time in the force. He knew how dead looked, and the woman that was laying at his feet certainly looked it. There was that ashen paleness of her skin, and glazed eyes, purple lips…Maybe, maybe she was really—dead. Mentally, he shook his head. No. No, he wouldn't allow that. Gordon had seen how he had reacted.

Batman.

This time, Gordon couldn't stop himself. His thoughts swirled around the Dark Knight.

It all made sense now, all the pieces falling into place. She had worked for, or tried to steal from Wayne Enterprises. She must have stumbled on something, had discovered something. _Maybe Batman can save you_ , his words echoed in his ear again. He had really done it, he had saved her. The way they had looked at each other, for a fraction of moment, the way she had stared at him at the crash scene, Gordon had taken it as a side effect of shock and surprise of almost dying, but there was more to it. She'd been looking at the man she had just tried to ruin his life. Batman.

Bruce Wayne.

His heartbeat fastening, he pushed the thought away again. No, he wasn't going to think about it now. Batman was what he was. Gordon had never cared for the man underneath the mask, it was enough for him to know what he was; the man who had saved his son's life.

"Get her to the hospital," Gordon ordered, his eyes leaving the enigmatic woman, toward the damn man that stood next to him, "Will you come?" he asked Lawton, even though he damn knew the DSH agent certainly would. There was no escaping from him now, so he had decided to play along.

Lawton merely nodded, and instructed his deputy, "Mercy, prepare the car."

The redhead woman nodded without a word, and walked away toward the Black BMW that had taken serious hits during the chase. Turning away from her, Lawton stared at him with unblinking eyes. There was something uncommon with his eyes, something he wasn't sure of. At the close proximity, the blue of his left eye seemed more glazed than the right one, clear like a cloudless sky, like a glass…

Gordon almost flinched, understanding what was wrong. His left eye, the cold sky-blue eye wasn't seeing. And he'd never noticed it until now. Gordon pressed a shudder. As if understanding he'd discovered his—secret, Lawton did something Gordon had never seen the man do before. He smiled.

"I was after an Al-Qaeda operative for two years," the DHS agent started telling, "I'd sighted him at Boston, Seattle, New York—" he paused for a second, "even in Gotham, but never managed to get him at the time. Finally we got a lead three years ago, and Mercy provided me what I needed. An address, somewhere he was going to be at a specific time. Then we finally met." The half-blind man looked at him, unblinking, "He took something from me, and in return I stole from him."

"What?" Gordon asked.

Again there was that thin smile over his lips. "His life," he answered, turning away, "I'll see you at the hospital, Commissioner."

His eyebrows pulling into a frown, Gordon returned ahead, and looked at the woman in front of him, as medical examiners started picking her up to place her in a body bag, and zipped her inside.

The sound echoed in his ears loud.

* * *

As he watched the scene from his palm screener in the room next to the operation room for the autopsy, Bruce almost broke his cover.

She was lying over the operation table, her body covered with a white sheet, the plastic name tag hanging over her bare foot. Leslie Thompkins washed her hands in the counter behind, then slowly walked over to the metal table, her eyes trained on her "patient", never giving even a glance at the intimidating company around them. Bruce knew in her time with Doctor without Borders in the war-tore-part, god-forgotten places in the South Africa and Middle East, the silver haired doctor had seen some intimidating figures. More than anything, Bruce was trusting that. That, and her friendship with his father.

Leslie Thompkins had been trying to live his father's dreams even when things kept getting worse and worse, never giving up. Aside her duties in the Metropolitan hospital, she was also running a clinic in the Narrows for the homeless, street kids, and addicts. As she stopped at the metal table, Bruce made a mental note to question her about the Unheards, too.

The doctor pulled the white sheet, exposing her ashen face and chest, just the sheet lowered until her breasts. Despite all the things, despite the all danger and perils, Bruce felt glad for the older woman's consideration. No one could accuse Valerie of being shy, but he preferred the current company in the room didn't see her—And why the hell he was thinking about her breasts when there was a possibility that she might never open her eyes again.

 _No!_

The urge to break something was so strong that Bruce fastened his hands into tight fists in a stance of defiance in order to keep quiet. No. No…no…he shouldn't think such things. She was going to be okay. She was going to open her eyes, and crack a joke, and Bruce was— He let a small, quite angered breath out. Why, why on the God's green earth she never listened to him! "Jason," he hissed, "Report."

"I'm in the mechanical room," he said, "waiting."

"Rory," Bruce asked the next.

"At Faraday Street," Rory answered immediately, "I can be at the back exit in ten seconds."

"Keep the motor running," Bruce instructed, even though he knew the motor was already on.

"Well, she's dead, as you can see," the doctor said, lifting the folder toward Gordon, "I need your signature in the papers, Commissioner," she continued, turning her gaze toward the Majors, then the Homeland Security agents, "then I'll start the autopsy."

As Gordon took the folder, and started signing the witness reports, Lawton took a step to the metal table. The man leaned toward her, and looked at her closely, with an owlish interest, eyes never blinking. His hands rose, and he examined the back of her neck. Then he turned toward to Leslie, "What are these, doctor?" he asked, pulling up from her, "there are tiny faded scars running across at the base of her neck."

For God's sake! Bruce evened out another sharp breath. The damn man had noticed her scars from the operation. The almost invisible scars were running across the back of her ears, neckline, and the base of her neck, little half inch lines. The skin mask had covered most of them, but for the line at the base of her neck where the root of her hair started, there was no way to place the skin mask, and Lawton had noticed those little scars.

Gordon snapped his head down at her too, his eyes taking a studious curiosity.

Bruce let out another sharp breath, full with his arising anger and worry. Nothing, nothing was going well with this op. If they discovered her operation… The doctor shook her head.

"Perhaps some scars from an accident, or residues of rhytidectomy or something like that," Leslie answered, as his jaw almost snapped. Danger flashed red in his mind. He quickly checked his watch. 00.28. The transfer to the hospital had taken too much, and now they were even wasting more of their precious time threading dangerous waters.

Major Sawyer pursed her lips down. "She's too young for a facelift job," she commented, looking at Valerie.

"We can't know for sure without her medical record," Leslie closed the discussion with an authoritarian tone, for which Bruce was glad. He wondered briefly what Fox had told her about the situation, how he had exactly convinced her to help them tonight.

Lawton's deputy inclined down toward Valerie, not interested with Leslie's stern voice. "They're not old," she said, running her fingers across her neck, too, "maybe a year or so, but not more."

The doctor's lips flattened. "I can tell more after the autopsy. You can read the details from my report," she said, then ran her eyes over them, "Now, if you'll excuse me," she said, gesturing with her hands at the table.

Gordon, and the rest of his company nodding, started walking away, but Lawton and his deputy stayed motionlessly. Something turned even colder in his insides. "Go ahead, doctor," Lawton said slowly, "We'll also witness the autopsy."

As his sight darkened with anger, it took all of his reserves not to punch the metal door in front of him.

* * *

For all the unexpected turns this op had taken, that had been always at the first lines of his risk matrix. He was angered things had completely gone south, but at least this time they had gone with a routine he had predicted.

Quickly he switched his channel to Fox, who was together with Alfred in the cave. "Fox, tell the doctor to stall," he ordered with a rasp, "Alfred, prepare cut off the power at my word," he continued, punching the necessary codes in his palm pad to infiltrate the hospital's system, then he pressed his ear again, "Jason, the auxiliary units?" he questioned as he hacked into the systems.

"Offline," the older man answered without missing a beat, "You're good to go."

Bruce didn't waste time any longer after then. He took the balaclava where he'd hung it around his tool belt, and pulled it down over his face. "Alfred, cut the power."

The next second, all was in the dark, expect the ER and ICU sections of the building that were tied to another auxiliary systems. "What's happening?" Bruce heard Major Sawyer's voice.

"The power—" the doctor answered, "the power's gone. Don't worry the generators will run shortly," she continued, as the lights turned on for a second before they faded again.

Bruce pressed the code to start the emergency protocol to evacuate the building, but before the alarms went off and he left his cover, the lights flickered another time, before they came alive again, and stayed at that way.

Something cold in his insides turned to ice. "Jason, what's happening?"

"I've got no idea," Jason fired, "The generator is still out of line."

"There must be a second generator in somewhere," Alfred said.

"No," Bruce rasped out, his anger rising, "I checked it." He shook his head. "Check the logs, see if there's something newly bought, something hasn't entered in the inventory yet."

Alfred stayed silent for a second, then said, "None, sir."

Then why the hell the lights were still online? He shook his head again. No matter. It didn't matter. Leslie had started stalling, preparing her tools as slow as she could under the circumstances. Sawyer and Bullock left the room, but Gordon stayed, possibly to help him if there was a need. When her tools were ready, the doctor started slowly pulling the white sheet over her, revealing her naked (and so pale) body, Bruce decided that they had stalled enough.

"Jason," he called in, "move to the back exit, I'm taking her out."

"I knew this was a bad plan," Jason muttered, but Bruce didn't have anything to say to that. It was even worse, but he wasn't going to let anything happen to her, no matter what. Never. "Rory," so he said, as Leslie fixed the tape recorder, and reported the basics about the day and post-mortem, "bring the van," he ordered, his tone taking a notch, stern but fierce.

But there was no response from the other side. "Rory," Bruce rasped as Leslie took a scalpel in her hand.

Still no response. "Rory!" Bruce hissed, "Report now!"

Leslie leaned toward Valerie—Bruce took the flashbangs and tear gas capsules in his hand, before he broke in the operation. If he survived tonight, he was going to have some serious talks with every person in his so-called "team". Serious conversation.

He pulled the tips at the flashbangs, but before he crashed into, suddenly the agents and Gordon's phones started squalling at the same moment. Leslie pulled back from Valerie, as the law enforcement agents looked at each other, before they answered. Bruce quickly tapped into Gordon's phone.

"Batman!" the disembarked voice from the police radio exclaimed, "Batman's been sighted on the way to the Metropolitan Hospital."

Suddenly all the world around him stopped, as the words boomed and flashed in his mind, stronger than any flashbang, momentarily incapacitating him. _Batman's been sighted._

The words turned and turned in his mind, until the monotone voice broke the spell, bringing him to the moment… "I knew he wouldn't let it go," Lawton said, smiling at her deputy, then his smile faded off, "Regroup your men," he ordered at the redhead woman, "We have him this time."

Then without another glance at the room, they left. Gordon exchanged a brief look with the doctor, before he walked out, as well, already calling him.

"What's going on?" the Commissioner asked.

"I don't know," Bruce growled, "Can it be a boogie?"

"Is there anyone else in this city riding that bike of yours?" Gordon asked back.

Bruce opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the voice he heard stopped the words dead at his lips. "It's me," Rory said, "I took the suit you'd hid in the safe house."

The Suit hidden at the Faraday Street's hideout, where Rory had been laying low with the getaway car, along with the Batpod. "You. Did. What?" Bruce bit off each word, his voice dangerously low, and sharp as razor.

"I told you one day I'm gonna pay my debt," Rory remarked, as the memory flashed in his mind nine months ago, in ramshackle hotel in Belfast…

 _"I won't forget what you did for me, and one day I will pay my debt."_

"You take her out, Bruce," Rory said, "I got this one."

The line went dead as the reality sat down with all of its gravity. Another Batman, not a copy-cat or supposed-to-be, but a—different Batman was at loose in his city. And soon all the police force and Homeland Security were going to be on him.


	8. Part II-IV

**Part II. IV – "Fixing it"**

* * *

In the unquiet darkness, Bruce heard the distant sirens. So it had begun. One thing for sure, they hadn't wasted any time. So he didn't, either. He touched his ear. "Position?" he questioned Rory.

"Heading to the city center," Rory answered, yelling over the sirens, "getting company, too."

Bruce almost snorted. "To your left, there's a switch," he instructed, keeping the sneer out of his voice, "It activates stealth mode," he explained. The matte of the Batpod and the armor made it easier to blend in the darkness, yet Bruce couldn't leave that to chance. If they detected him with range finders, then they were doomed. "Alfred," he went on, switching to the older man, "Walk him through," he ordered, "And you—" he added for Rory, his voice edging with his tell-tale roughness, "stay alive until I come."

Muting their link, he checked his watch. 00.14.

His eyebrows clenched further, possibilities running rampant in his overly active mind. He needed to wake Valerie, like now. "Alfred," he turned to his former guardian again, "Security cameras in the operation room?" he inquired, chasing the thoughts, focusing his attention where it must be fully concentrated. Neither Valerie nor Gotham could tolerate any distraction now. No more.

"We're in the loop, sir," Alfred quickly replied, "You can go in."

With his palm pad, he gave a quick glance inside. The doctor had already left, possibly to give him privacy, understanding he wouldn't have much time. He took off the ski mask, and hung it along his belt. He linked to Jason. "Jason," he called in, his voice now nothing but his habitual rasp, "Bring the van to the back exit," he ordered. He hoped that much at least Rory hadn't messed up.

In the distance, the sirens echoed again.

Without another word, Bruce steeled his mind for what he left behind, and for what he would find ahead, and opened the door of the adjoining room. He walked into the operation room.

Despite the steel in his mind, though, what he found laying over the metal table stole the breath out of his lungs. He'd seen it before at the screen, had watched as Leslie and the detectives kept probing her, but seeing her with his very eyes was different, so much that Bruce knew he had just added a brand new dread to his many nightmare catalogue that would haunt him as soon as he closed his eyes for a minute of reprise.

She was paler than he had expected, her hair clogged with mud and sand from Gotham River, just like her face that was covered with bruises from the crash. Leslie hadn't had time to wash her, something he had been glad before. He shook his head mentally, and focused at the reality. There wasn't time now for these thoughts. From his tool belt, he quickly retrieved the drug mix that would revive her and approached her. Releasing a breath, he jabbed the syringe in the artery of her neck.

For a second, nothing happened; she stayed in the same way, pale and ghastly. He leaned toward her, listening to her chest. No sound. He cast a glance at the syringe, but it was empty. "Valerie," he whispered into her ear, "Valerie!" His voice rose, together with the panic, as there was still no sign of life from her, "Valerie! Do you hear me?"

Still, no sign.

His chest constricted. It couldn't be happening. Not to her… Not to Valerie… He pulled back, jolting aside to reach the electro shock handles that stood over the table, but before he could adjust the charge, with a deep, long suffering breath, Valerie's eyes jerked open. She looked at him with glazed eyes, half raised from the metal table.

"Valerie," he uttered her name like a prayer, his head bowed, revealing the same kind of heavy breath, too, letting the handles go. Even though she saw it, she didn't register his reaction, as her eyes wandered around terrified. The white sheet had slipped over from her shoulders toward her stomach with her movements, but Bruce knew she hadn't registered that, either.

And it was exactly what he had feared, what Jason had feared, what Valerie herself had feared. A panic attack, she was having a panic attack. And they didn't have time even for that.

He heard the damn sirens again.

He turned her to him, his movements having an improper urgency for her condition, but there was no other option. "Hey," he called her, pulling the sheet up over her, "Look at me."

"No—" she whimpered out, her eyes darting around in terror, her ears deaf to his firm order, "No…" she murmured, glassy eyes falling over his. But there was no recognition in them, only a confused craze shining in the depths of her greens, her pupils dilated with the drugs he'd forced on her. "No," he then heard the mumble from the purple lips, and the name followed out in a broken sob-whisper, "Clara…"

"Valerie!" he bellowed out at the mention of it, "Valerie, look at me."

She still didn't. He held her chin, and turned her to face him. "Breathe—" He commanded in a steady voice, as a bleak fear coiled his stomach into cold stone, but he was no stranger to fear. He lived through fear. "You're not in the prison," he told her in the same steady staccato, capturing her gaze, "and you're safe." Breathing hard, he could almost hear her galloping heart, but her eyes became a bit less confused, looking back at him, even though dilated pupils stayed the same.

"Close your eyes," he ordered, "Concentrate. Focus on my voice. It's okay. You're okay," he assured her with a firm voice, and he just knew it was what she needed from him; a reliable anchor in the turmoil. Heaving out a sob-breath, she closed her eyes. He recalled her letter, what she'd told him; _you have good hands. They're not soft, but gentle. They know the kindness, and they knew me, too._ "You're okay," he repeated slowly, not soft but gentle, something she could always count on.

Always.

She opened her eyes, exhaling heavily, and looked at him. This time she saw him. "Br—Bruce—?" she roughed out, blinking rapidly, her voice hoarse from scratched throat, "What happened?" she asked with a tremble, as she slid and sat at the edge of the cold metal table, a tremble coursing through her body, the white sheet pooling over her lap again, this time fully.

He snapped his eyes up at her, and reached over to the hospital gown that Leslie had left behind. "We need to get you out of here," he said, without answering her real question. His eyes trained on hers, he took the white floral decorated loose-one-piece dress and passed it through her head. She raised her arms up to help him, and leaned on his chest as he adjusted it over her. He closed his eyes for a second as her chest pressed over him briefly, but the next second, he frowned. She was cold, so cold, trembling in his embrace like a leaf. He cursed inwardly. Of course, she was cold. She'd been lying stark naked in the morgue for almost an hour.

He pulled back an inch, lowering the dress over her legs, and searched her eyes. They were still dilated, but the confused glaze had vanished. "Can you walk?" he asked, checking her again.

She nodded. "Yeah—just give me a hand," she said, skipping to her feet, but as soon as she touched on the ground, she swayed, and started falling. Bruce caught her at the last minute, as her fingers clutched his upper arms tightly for strength.

He angled his head down at her. "Take it easy," he said, "It's the drugs, and your fall—"

"What fall?" she asked, lifting her head up, then again, Bruce saw the confusion coming back to her.

His eyebrows pulled tighter. "We'll talk later. We need to get you out," he repeated, then hesitated before he continued, "And I need to go save—Batman."

She looked at him as if it was him who was high with a drug cocktail. "What?"

"Rory," he explained, his voice adopting the habitual rasp instinctively, "He's out—He's taken my Suit." He paused again, "And Lawton is after him."

Leaning toward him further for support, she weakly laughed. "Bet you didn't see that coming."

As the sirens ringed in his ears louder and louder, Bruce had to concede with that.

* * *

In all her life she never remembered feeling this week. With each step, her feet staggered, as if she was made of jelly, down to her brain. Nothing made much sense, but when had her life really made sense anyway?

At least, this time she had a very good reason, and a logical explanation, too.

Well, she supposed. Bruce had talked about disorientation, and anxiety crisis, and nausea, she recalled as her stomach churned in a funny way inside, but he hadn't said anything about memory loss, and she just knew she'd lost something along the way to hospital from the bridge. She remembered the way the damn black BMW cornered her, remembered how the damn man was looking at her, too, the rest, well, it was like unfitted pieces of a puzzle; snapshots… underwater, the hands dragging her up and away…

She straightened under Bruce's firm grip over her shoulders, as they walked in the corridor that led to the back exit, her hand tightened around the fake IV pole Bruce had found laying around to create their "the patient-strolling-in-the-corridor" image. She craned her neck up to look at him, her staggering steps faltering, "Oh my god," she whispered, "I did it. I really jumped over the bridge."

The frown Bruce gave was her answer, even before he opened his mouth, "You don't remember?" he questioned, tight eyes searching her.

She shrugged, as they resumed walking. For a fleeting second, she wondered about security cameras. Bruce was out in the open, even though he was again in his "stealth mode" with beard, khaki pants, and flannels, leaving the black outfit and balaclava behind. He didn't look like the patented billionaire with Armani, too, but security cameras were another deal. "Everything's a mess," she said, not knowing what exactly she was referring too; and it was rather sad that it could be applied to almost everything in her life. "What did you do with cameras?" she asked, her eyes skipping toward one at the corner of the ceiling.

"Alfred created a loop," Bruce explained fast, tightening his grip on her, as she almost tripped again, "We're not here right now." A pause, then he asked, his voice suddenly hesitant, "What do you remember?"

She shrugged again. "Not much," she answered, "I remember that son of a bitch," she said, though didn't clarify who she had meant. There was no need. "And I remember—underwater. I tried to swim out, but couldn't open the doors…" she halted for a second, remembering the hands pulling her out. She lifted her head at him again, a smile forming at her lips, her chest swelling with something she couldn't name, "You saved me. You pulled me out."

The stony expression over his face wasn't the reaction she had expected to get. Nor his answer. "No," he said with a rasp, pulling back an inch from her, "it wasn't me," he continued, "it was Jason." Her steps halting again, she looked at him, "He jumped after you."

Then she remembered… looking at her father's face at the shore, calling him Bruce. The nameless thing became an ache, a drill forcing her way in her chest, her eyes suddenly hurting, tears threatening to break to surface. She told herself it was just a side effect of the drugs, just like confusion, dilated pupils, and jelly legs. So what he hadn't come after her? He couldn't possibly reveal his cover in front of Gordon. That was why he had brought in Jason, so he wouldn't deal with stuff like that alone… But his identity meant more than her life…? She wouldn't guess so… but… his priorities… there was no second-guessing with that. When it was about Gotham, nothing, no one would go in a competition with her. Was that jealousy she was feeling? She couldn't be jealous of a damn city!

God, she shouldn't think about such stuff when she was this high. "And Rory?" she asked, changing the topic.

"Lawton wanted to stay for your—autopsy," he answered, his eyes turning stern, as his voice, "I was about to get you out, but in the meantime Rory apparently managed to figure out how to run Batpod."

She faintly laughed, as the back exit appeared ahead them at the end of the corridor. "Well, he's smart."

"He's a damn fool," Bruce bit off.

"Reminds me of someone I know," she murmured under breath, then saw Jason waiting for them at the back exit.

Unceremoniously but gently, Bruce passed her to her father. With her one arm still contacted to his shoulder, she looked at him, already missing his body's heat as he pulled away. She told herself it was okay. He had made sure she was safe and okay, had calmed her in the morgue when she lost her shit, and now his job with her done, he was going to yet another person who needed his help. It was how things were suppose to be.

"Take her to the manor," Bruce ordered to Jason, "use the high road. Rory's going to the city center."

With a heavy look, Jason nodded. "Be careful," Bruce said for the last, closing the door after she stepped inside the van, something straining his voice, but she didn't want to speculate.

* * *

As Bruce followed the Batpod with the black anonymous bike Jason had used to drive before, the scene was oddly familiar, with one very fundamental difference; instead of trailing after the police cortege, it was usually him leading the party. "Alfred," he called the older man, another revelation forcing out of the depth of his consciousness, that must have been what Alfred felt, too, whenever he stepped a foot outside, stayed behind to watch him as he took chances with his life…

That was his call, he reminded himself the older man's words, his choice, his decision; he couldn't decide for them.

Them.

There was another person that stayed behind each night, someone who almost begged him not to keep her out… Bruce shot off his thoughts, and concentrated on the cortege ahead.

Lawton's task force was leading the force, but Bruce still wasn't sure of their orientation, not each of them was Homeland Security, as they were still agents from FBI and DEA as they first had suspected. It was a very curious thing, that Lawton calling them as "their men" but Bruce had understood the DHS team wasn't a regular team, much like lone wolves hunting with close confidantes, much like him.

The thought flattened his lips under the helmet into a tight grimace. Dispelling the last thought, he looked ahead, as the same moment, the Batpod suddenly lightened with lights above.

Air cavalry had arrived on the scene, too.

With a silent curse, he watched Rory as the younger man drove on the road, zigzagging between lanes. Rory had trouble with keeping the powerful bike on a straight line, and Bruce could understand. He was still in shock that Rory actually managed to turn it on, let alone drive it, at the top speed. But for how long?

Lights were shining on him, soon they were going to notice the difference. Lawton wasn't someone to miss something like that. He would understand he was chasing after a decoy. He needed a distraction. He eyed the traffic lights, as he craned his neck to the north side… where the Tonawanda Reservation of the Seneca Indians lay ahead.

An Indian reservation at the confines of the city, where neither Gotham PD nor Homeland Security had a direct authority. Lawton possibly wouldn't heed the formal protocol, but Gordon would insist they should call the Department of Indian Affairs first. All he needed to do now was to get Rory into the reservation without—an accident.

Or with many accidents. He quickly called Alfred. "Alfred, hack into the city's traffic observation desk," he ordered, "and turn all the lights to green."

"Sir?" Alfred questioned with one utterance.

"We need to divert their attention to something else," he explained, pulling the handles further to speed up, "I'm taking him to the Tonawanda Reservation."

Before Alfred could reply, he switched his radio to the Commissioner, silencing other thoughts in his mind, too. "Gordon," he rasped out.

For a moment, the only sounds that came from the other side were sirens and motor engines, then he heard Gordon, too, "Where are you?" the Commissioner asked, "What's happening?"

Good question. Many things were happening; a Batman was riding ahead of him, a task force behind him, Gordon knowing the man he was talking right now… Valerie looking at him with those eyes as her father took her away…

Everything was a mess, though he shouldn't be surprised, not anymore.

"Who is that man we're following?" Gordon inquired further.

He could see how things might look like from Gordon's side. Just when he thought he had figured out his secret, then there was yet another Batman riding at the streets. "He's—" Bruce said, his voice bearing a dark humor, blunt as a dulled edge, "Batman."

" _Son,_ " Gordon hissed back, "Jokes have never been your strongest point."

"We're leading to the Tonawanda Reservation," Bruce said then, not actually answering his inquiry, but still, it was enough of an answer for Gordon to follow up.

"Ah," the older man said in response.

"Stall as long as you can," he instructed as the lights turned to green ahead of them.

At the same moment, two police cars crashed other civilian cars at the intersection they were passing. "Rory—" He turned to the younger man, passing through the smashed vehicles, all while downloading the coordinates to the Batpod's computer, "Check the rendezvous point. Don't look back," he ordered for the last, "just drive."

* * *

Before midnight, they were back again at home—at the cave. Without a word, he climbed down from the bike, and took off his helmet. Alfred was there, too, together with Fox, but Bruce didn't spare them a glance, his eyes fixed at the man sitting at the Batpod.

"Bruce—" Rory said with a voice not suited with his armor, "I can—"

Bruce cut him off, "Take it off," he ordered, gesturing the cowl.

Nodding, Rory reached to it. His hands went to the mechanism nearby, but just at the moment he touched it, the hidden electro shock at the neck collar sent a surge through him. Rory fell down on the cave's ground limbless.

Alfred sighed heavily behind him. "Master Wayne—"

Bruce cut him off too, "He deserved it," he rasped, "When he comes to, help him to get out of the armor," he instructed. "Good night," he then said without another word.

He didn't want to say anything else. He didn't want to think how dangerously close they had come to blow everything off, how they had fucked things up. There was only one thing to do.

He went up to his guest room.

Close to midnight, she was sleeping in the bed, no longer pale and ghastly as before. She was clean, possibly had taken even a shower, a slight redness over her skin. She was alive.

He sat at the edge of the bed, and bowed his head, giving up a silent sigh. It had been so close, so close.

As if sensing his presence, Valerie slowly opened her eyes. Seeing him, she tried to straighten in the bed, but Bruce caught her. "Easy," he said, easing her back in the bed, "Take it easy."

"When did you come?" she asked, her hoarse voice an octave above a whisper, as she rested back over the pillows.

"Just," he answered, but not giving away further explanation why he had been sitting at her bedside. He supposed the reason was clear enough.

And he knew she understood it, too, but she didn't question, either. "What did you do with Rory?" she asked instead.

He shrugged.

"I hope you didn't bite his head off," Valerie muttered with a heavy sigh.

He looked at her, a faint smile finally touching at his lips. "No, just electro-shocked him."

"Bruce—" she heaved another sigh, but her lips reflected his smile back, too. Then her face sobered, "What's happening with Gordon?" she questioned further.

Bruce shot at her a look. "I don't—exactly know," he answered, hesitance entering his words.

She frowned. "He figured it out-"

"Not about you," he interjected, reassuring her, "But about me. I think he knows now."

Her eyebrow arched. "You _think?_ "

"Well, we didn't talk about it—not really."

She frowned further. "Why?"

Why? Why? She was really asking him about that? "Why, I was more concerned about the fact that you jumped over forty feet down over a bridge than Gordon figuring out my secret!" he fired, looking at her with the same fire in his eyes.

Suddenly a blush—not a redness or flush—but a real blush colored her creamy skin. She bowed her head, running her eyes away. "You shouldn't have done that, Valerie," Bruce said silently.

"I—agree," she said, this time with bafflement.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "You really don't remember?" he asked, suddenly not knowing how he should feel. What she had told him before she jumped—it was—well, it was something he had always known, he always knew their time together wasn't just sex, but hearing it from her—it mattered, more than he had expected, more than it should have.

His eyes found hers, and what he saw looking back at him was close to the confusion he had seen in the morgue. "Bruce-" she whispered out, so low it was barely audible, "Did-Did I say something?" she asked.

Inwardly, Bruce heaved a sigh, and stood up, and told her the only truth he could give, "Nothing I didn't know before," he said, and in a moment of incredulity, because he felt he needed to do something, do something right for a change, he leaned forward to her, and kissed her at the forehead.

He walked out of the guest room, and went to the cave.

Its current company already departed, it was how it had always been; majestic, imperial, silent, aside the hum of the machinery and chirpings of the bats in the heights. Unlike the other times, though, it didn't feel like home. It was cold, damp, and dark, shadows at every corner. He turned to his armor in the glass vault.

As his eyes stared at it, the memory turned over his mind repeatedly.

 _Don't be hard on yourself, you're only a man._

 _I can't be only a man._

* * *

The next week started slowly, as they picked up the pieces from where they were scattered around. Bruce didn't mention about the "accident" again, and she wrote off the intimate kiss at the forehead as a side-effect of being almost dead.

On an unspoken agreement, they both returned to their usual ways. She re-entered the hotel until she moved to the penthouse the next week, and started preparing for the Friday that marked Valerie West's debut in the Wayne Enterprises. Bruce didn't speak with Gordon again, nor go out again after the last disastrous event. He needed time to assimilate the new change in his life, and Valerie had a suspicion that Gordon knew that, too.

The Tabula Rasa and the Unheards occupied him enough. He concentrated his rehabilitation plans that would restore the balance in Gotham, but in all frankness, Valerie wasn't very hopeful. In her younger days, she'd witnessed countless attempts at such back in home after Belfast Agreement, to regain a sort of normalcy to the life after years of conflict, but as far as she could see, every attempt had fallen short. Balance was much like innocence in that regard. Once it was lost, it was impossible to regain.

And that was life, she already accepted it, but Bruce didn't, and that was what mattered.

At least for her.

"Explain to me again why we're doing this?" Jason asked, straightened for a bit under the cheap IKEA desk in her newly rented office to peer at her. So yeah, he had also stayed. She had asked.

At the next morning after "the accident", Jason had come, and they had bantered, exchanged a few barbs, not mentioning even once that he'd jumped after her forty feet, and well, before he had left the room, she had asked if he would like to stay for Bruce's birthday the next weekend, because everyone said a party in the Wayne Manor was a once-in-a lifetime opportunity that no one should miss.

She had also asked for his trinkets from Bruce, and the letters she had declined before, and stored them under her bed, together with Bruce's cuff bracelet. Shoot her, she was becoming sentimental. "You asked if there is anything to help, so stop complaining," she said, hanging her framed license on the wall just behind her desk, a smile pulling her lips out, looking at her name over the certificate.

Valerie West

Private Detective.

It was stupid to feel this proud over a stupid piece of sheet, but here she was, smiling at it maniacally. She had done it, she had passed the test. First time in her life, she had something that there was no fakeness in it. She had earned it.

How she couldn't be proud of it?

"I was asking why you're bothering with IKEA?" he asked, as Rory came out of the little kitchen area, wiping his hands on a towel. As Jason had stayed for the weekend, Rory also followed his example, as he became somewhat—fascinated with Bruce. Oddly, after electro-shocking him, Bruce hadn't bit the younger man's head off further. In fact, he'd even brought Rory back to the cave once, to show him his other toys.

She wasn't the only one getting—sentimental, it seemed.

"What's wrong with IKEA?" Rory asked, leaving the cloth piece on the said table, "It's good, cheap," he added the bottom line, too.

"They don't even sell you assembled pieces," her father pointed out.

"Actually, they do," Valerie countered, "But I didn't—" she paused, opening her palms to the sides, "Why the hell I'm explaining myself to you?"

Her father sent her a toothy grin. "Why, exactly?" he laughed out.

"Ugh." She threw her head back, and tailed to the kitchen. She just should have asked Bruce. She didn't want to spend money more than necessary for the office after she'd spent a fortune for her new wardrobe. As good as the yoga pants and leggings were she could hardly wander around Wayne Tower in them.

Albeit her many, many protests, she was going to work as Fox's PI, Bruce was adamant on that. After the whole Cameron Reese debate he had become downright paranoid not tagging his name along with her. As the corporate detective, she was going to question even board members, so she was needed to be taken seriously, and in the business world your clothes always talk before you do. So she had made herself a new wardrobe, going with the basic standard female cop look. It wasn't hard, and it wasn't something she would feel awkward, too, so she'd become rather attached to it. Some perhaps would even say that she had overdone it. Hence, IKEA furnishing.

Inside the kitchen, she looked for something to eat, but as she hadn't still gone shopping, there was nothing. Trotting back to her two-room office, one bathroom, and kitchen office in the city center, she grabbed her square hip bag and coat, and started going out. She had found the office at the beginning of this week after a stroll in the city, just because she could. She was safe. Cameron Reese was declared dead. Lawton was still after Batman, but at least the Cameron Reese situation had finished.

"I'm going shopping," she informed her company before she exited out in the streets.

"I'm coming, too," her father rushed after her.

Halting in her steps, she looked at Jason. "It's not—" she started, but he already cut her off.

"Nope, don't wanna hear it," he said, dragging her to the drug store at the corner, taking her at the elbow, "We're going to do shopping father and daughter!"

She heaved a sigh, but let him amuse himself with this sudden "father-daughter" thing. God, she was really getting sentimental.

At the entrance, she pulled a cart, and began circling around the aisles. "So, are you nervous for the Friday?" Jason asked as she picked up a corn flakes bag from the top shelves, and looked at him before she threw it in the cart. "What—why?" she asked.

"Well, your new—job and all," her father answered, shrugging.

"No," she said, rising her eyes up toward the shelves, mostly to escape from his gaze, "It's fine."

"Bruce said he isn't going to be in your introduction meeting," Jason continued, his tone taking a hint on a frown.

Fox was going to hold a greeting party for the board members so they wouldn't give her the attitude while she interviewed them, and Bruce had decided to stay out of it, too. He'd reasoned his rather large personality would draw the attention away from her, and he hadn't wanted that. Valerie knew it wasn't just because he didn't want to steal away her spotlight. No, Bruce was actually wary of his board. His Tabula Rasa program was straining his board in two opposites, and Bruce was determined to figure out who stood at his side. He also hadn't still found out who had bugged the conference room, so he was quite adamant that she provided him an answer.

The notion made her—she didn't know—proud. He trusted her with his family business. She'd come to realize what his family name stood for him, even though he always acted like a misfit, it was important to him, enough to concede with Alfred to throw out big fancy parties, whenever Alfred pulled out the family tradition as a last reserve. "Yes," she said, turning to her father, throwing another bag of chips into the cart, "He said he hates waking up early."

Jason laughed, moving the cart to another aisle. She looked at the microwavable meals on the shelves, and started picking up a few, just as Jason exclaimed, "You possibly can't eat those things!"

She shrugged. "They're okay."

"They're unhealthy," Jason scoffed, "You can cook for yourself," he continued, "God's sake, kiddo, you used to run a restaurant."

"That was a long time," she snapped, pulling more meals, just to spite him, "I forgot it."

"You can't forget it," Jason hinted.

"I _did._ "

"Ah, I see," her father said then, and she just knew she shouldn't have come with him, shouldn't have asked him to stay, shouldn't have tried at the first place. "It's about Michael, right? You don't cook anymore because that was what you used to do when you were with him?"

She grabbed the handle of the cart tightly, shooting a killer look at Jason. She just shouldn't have tried. "You—you—" she said, taking a deep breath, words failing her once again, "You're unbelievable."

"Just because I'm the only one who can call you on your shit," he shot back, "You know, I told Bruce you're both cut from the same cloth, but I was wrong," he said, his frown growing tighter, "You're not cut from the same cloth. You're cut off from the same shit."

"I don't have to listen to this—" She turned the cart in the other direction, shaking her head, "I don't know what we're doing here," she mumbled, mostly to herself but still her father answered.

"Why, I concur we're talking about your love life—" he said in return, following her, "more like the lack of it," he corrected the next second.

She stopped in her tracks, as absurd as it was having this talk between the aisles in a drug store, but when their life was anything but absurd? "Okay, tell me, father," she demanded, a fury lighting in her eyes, turning her voice into a hiss, "Do you think I'm playing house again, don't you?"

"No—" Jason said without missing a beat, "No, there is no lie here," he continued, "that's why it's even worse." He looked at her seriously, "Kiddo, I think, you should return with me."

She looked at him incredulously. "You must be kidding me."

Walking around the cart, Jason stood closer to her. "No, I'm not." He paused, leaving a deep breath, "Sweetheart, I—" He shook his head, and started again, "I know you're trying to build a life here, but, everything you have is tied to him."

She looked at him in defiance, "And?"

"And—that's not good," Jason encountered, "Look, you won't keep this up. Say whatever you fancy, but sooner or later you'll move to his bed, and before I thought it would change things, but after what happened—" He paused for a second, looking at her, as if trying to find a gentle way not to hurt her with his words, something he seldom cared to think, but like each of them her father was changing, too.

"I saw how he was—" he restarted, "He got you safe then left you to go to Rory. Where you sleep wouldn't change it. That night I understood there'll always be something that would come before you, and I'm not sure if I want my daughter to live like that."

She swallowed, closing her eyes, suddenly feeling tired… "It's not why I'm staying with him," she said, opening her eyes. Her reasons had become so confused she didn't any longer know why she was exactly staying, but she had always known there was no happy ending with him. She had accepted it. Deep down she knew or hoped someday they would be—more, even though she had made her rule about the backseat, but she had never dreamed a happy ending with him.

Happy endings didn't work with her, too, so why she would anyway? One time she'd tried it, and had fucked it up monumentally… No, she wouldn't make the same mistake twice. But she was having a life here, in which she didn't pretend, she didn't fake, with people who trusted her, knowing her fully, but still wanting her in. How could she turn her back on that?

"Believe it or not, I know there is no happy ending here," she told her father, leaning over the handle's of the cart, "I don't expect one. Truth is, father, Bruce doesn't need me, for all things I offer, I cause even more trouble. There is nothing I can give him that he can't already do himself. Still, he wants me in his life. He told me I've become a part of his life, a pivotal part. I'm here just because he wants me here. Do you know how that feels?" she asked, her eyes watering, and she exhaled a deep breath before she could continue.

"I never did, not until I met him. There was only one person who ever wanted me in his life without a reason, and the person he had wanted was nothing but a lie." She took a meal from the cart, shaking it, "But with him, it's me—" throwing the meal back, she pressed her hand on her chest, "It's real. I have a license at my office, I have God-awful furniture, and a kickass wardrobe, and someone trusts me, believes in me, and you know what, they weren't given me freely," she cried out, the pride she had felt looking at her license turning back with all of its force, "I earned them. I earned my place in his life, and I'm _not_ giving it up just because he doesn't love me the way I want him to."

Her eyes widened at her passionate confession, she looked at her father, confusion ringing louder and louder in her mind. Jason took a step closer to her, but she took a step back. _He doesn't love me the way I want him to…_

There she had said it, she had confessed, she wanted him—she wanted him to love her.

She half expected the world stopped at that moment, the apocalypse finally coming, but everything was the same. The clientele of the drug store kept buying stuff, the clerk behind the counter shot wary glances at every customer walking in, the traffic outside creating the background sounds. Nothing was wrong with the world. The problem was with them, not with the world.

And she needed to do something about it, before it was too late, she had to stop whining and make it right again.

With a swift motion, she turned on her heels, and rushed out to her car.

She drove to the manor, without letting herself think anything; she knew if she stopped for a second and thought, she would just backpedal. No, she wouldn't do that, she just couldn't. Not anymore.

She parked in front of the manor's staircase, and quickly climbed the stone staircase. "Alfred," she breathed out as soon he opened the main door for her, "Where is he?"

"Uh—" He gave her a look, as she already starting walking to the stairs, "In the cave, miss."

Running, she flew over the stairs, and ran into the dining room, and walked in the make-shift elevator. She pulled the lever hastily inside, and closed her eyes as the lift started its descent into the cave. She still didn't let herself think. Straight thinking was for pussies! She just was going to do what felt right, she could trust her instincts. At the end, they had made her meet him.

The lift sat on its nest with a low grumble of metal, and she quickly opened the doors, and stormed out of it, and ran to him. He was in front of his stations, hunched over the files. Hearing her loud entrance, he swirled on his chair, turning to her, a "hello" at his lips, but it died off when he saw her, running toward him.

"Valerie-!" he sprung to his feet, "What happened?" he asked, "Is something wrong?"

She stopped an inch apart from him, heaving out breaths, nodding. "Yes, something's wrong," she told him in a breathless whisper, then lifted her eyes up at him, "But don't worry," she said, taking a step closer, "I've come to fix it."

She then held his head between her hands, pulled him toward herself, and fixed it.

She kissed him.

* * *

 _A/N: Hurray! ;)_


	9. Part III-I

**Part III. I –"Defeat"**

* * *

The next morning, uncharacteristically Bruce opened his eyes with dawn, acutely aware of the condition in which he was waking up. Uncharacteristic behaviors had turned to a norm these days with him, so he wasn't particularly surprised, but this time there was another reason, too. Last night, he couldn't get anything done—well, looking at it from some certain point, he would say he'd gotten a specific thing done, _repeatedly_ , but no sane person would call that work. Slowly, he shifted aside, and looked at Valerie, who was still curled up against him in all her naked glory, still sleeping soundly. Unlike him, Valerie had always been an early riser, but after last night, understandably, she needed her repose.

His eyes wandering around his master bedroom, Bruce saw their reflection in the tall mirror along the wall. Tangled in the ivory sheets, their naked bodies seemed like a scene from an old movie under the newborn sunlight. The room itself was oozing of the heavy scent of after-sex; sweat, skin, and passion, and Bruce had never thought he would've witnessed such an episode in his own room. When he needed to take girls to bed, he usually opted their houses, or hotels—easier to walk out, but never the manor, let alone his room where he slept each night after coming back from the cave…

God, he must be crazy doing this… insane, nuts, he'd finally lost whatever had left from his scattered sanity… but he didn't know how to stop, either. He'd tried, though, last night in the cave, he'd tried... and failed. His eyes skipped at Valerie again. No defeat really should feel this good.

Slowly, he extracted himself off her arms and legs that interweaved to his body, and started standing up. "I thought Bruce Wayne hates waking up early," Valerie murmured as he stopped at the bed's edge, and angled to her. Sprawled on her stomach unabashed, she was peering at him with half-open smoldering eyes. "Where are you goin'?" she questioned.

"I didn't prepare the file for the board members last night," he answered in a rasp, his eyes stealing a quick look at her naked body before he turned ahead, "Need to finish it—" He reached for his pants from the floor and buttoned himself up, a half-frown appearing above his eyebrows, "and you need to read it." He stood up from the bed.

"You know, usually guys just say they're going to prepare breakfast or something," she laughed out from behind.

Bruce turned to her, his frown had blossomed out fully. Still motionless in her poise, but her eyes more alert, she smiled at him, as if she was enjoying herself a great deal.

"Valerie—" he uttered her name with an edge, hovering over the bed.

With a swift motion, she pulled upright, and jumped to the floor. "I don't do breakfast anyways," she said, bypassing him, and sauntered toward the bathroom, not neglecting putting an extra sway in her hips.

Bruce closed his eyes, breathing out hard from his nose. This was going to be _hard._

 _The scene was familiar, the desperation and urgency, but this time it wasn't his. She assaulted him, her hands vise-like at the sides of his head, pulling him toward her closer, as her tongue searched for entrance to his mouth. He knew he shouldn't, he should take a step back, and ask what exactly was happening, but—somehow he did just the exact opposite. Opening his mouth, he pulled her closer, snapshots flashing in his mind; the way she lay at the morgue… the way she looked at him in the van before Jason took her away… her confession just before she jumped over the bridge, then the last week, how desolated the cave came to him…cold and dark, his armor like a cage bound him…_

 _I can't be only a man…_

 _At his words, everything stopped, the reality striking again, his body stiffened, motionless, as if cast of granite. He didn't do anything, but he didn't need to; Valerie understood it. Stopping the kiss, she pulled back an inch, and when her eyes met, Bruce saw tears shining in her depths of her greens._

 _"Bruce, please," she whispered, no words following._

 _And it killed something inside him. Heaving a deep breath out, he stepped back, his back finding the workbench, and he bowed his head, to escape her gaze. "Valerie—I can't—" he muttered, "I can't."_

 _"Yes, you can," she said, her voice suddenly hard and curt, "you just don't want to."_

 _His head snapped up at him, and he saw the eyes that had been just looking at him pleadingly had a cold fire in them, unflinching, "Do you really think I don't want it?" he asked._

 _"Do you really want to know what I think?" she shot back, "I think this isn't about what you want, but about what you're willing to risk for. When it's about your emotions, you live in your comfort zone, and you don't want it to be disturbed. You're stale, obsessive, stuck in the past, and whenever someone tries to bring you to the present, you say 'you can't' because God forbid if you act one tiny second not like a tragic hero who mopes around in brood and gloom." She exhaled out deeply, "You're addicted to misery."_

 _His eyebrows tightened. "Yeah—like you say, I'm a lost cause." He turned aside to leave, "You should stay aside."_

 _"If only we can choose who we fall for," she said after him._

 _Her words stopped him dead in his tracks. He turned around. "Valerie—"_

 _She walked to him. "Before I jumped, what did I say, Bruce?" she demanded, looking directly at his eyes, "What's that thing you already knew?"_

 _"Valerie—"_

 _She cut him off, coming closer, "Just for once don't be a coward, and tell me, Bruce!" she shouted, "What did I say? What could I possibly say that you can't even repeat it aloud!"_

 _"You said you lied!" he shouted back, "That it wasn't just sex."_

 _She let out a breath. "And you already knew it…" she murmured, more to herself._

 _"Valerie, don't do this—"_

 _"Don't do what?" she screamed again, "Beg you to love me back?!" she stopped, closing her eyes, as if words had taken the last ounce of her strength. "It's not fair, Bruce," she muttered, "You don't take me in, but you don't let me go, either. You just keep me hanging on."_

 _He bowed his head, shaking it. "Valerie—we can't—" he said, "I can't—can't stop—"_

 _"I don't expect you—" she interjected, "I don't want you to. I know where your priorities lie, and it's okay. I just want us to be…more."_

 _He knew what she had said was truth. Valerie wasn't after a fairy tale, she'd never been. But, still, he shook his head. "It's too dangerous," he objected, "Bruce Wayne and you—we can't be seen together in public. We can't risk it."_

 _"We keep it secret," she quickly encountered._

 _"I'll have to act like a playboy, Val—" he said in return, somehow starting why a relationship between them wouldn't work, "a jerk—"_

 _She pursed her lips. "You're already a jerk."_

 _And somehow, he continued, "Will have to flirt with other girls—"_

 _"I'm not the jealous type."_

 _He stared at her, "Will need to take them to bed sometimes…"_

 _"We'll drug them," she said, with a frown, then a quirky smile followed, "I can teach you the trick."_

 _"Valerie—"_

 _"Bruce—" They said at the same time. She closed her eyes, in silence. Bruce stepped closer, and touched her cheek. She opened her eyes. "Valerie, I'd only make you unhappy."_

 _With a frustrated shake of her head, she stepped back. "For God sake, Bruce, don't you understand?" she cried out, "I don't want to be_ _ **happy**_ _. I want to be with you!"_

 _His resolves crumbled. He'd been trying too long, and now he was breaking down; failing yet another time. His defenses at her feet, he kissed her._

 _No defeat ever felt this good._

* * *

Leave it to Bruce Wayne to act like she'd condemned him to a life sentence, forcing his hand to something he wanted badly, _very_ badly. That was the thing _she_ already knew, she knew how much he wanted her, like a man wanted a woman, after "the backseat" there was no doubt of that, but she also knew, unlike the rest of his kind, Bruce Wayne was a man directed truly by his, uh, head, not the other thing.

Perhaps she shouldn't be surprised for the morning, after all. And she shouldn't press him, either, it was a miracle in itself that he had yielded, he needed time now to adjust; adaption took time. He hadn't even talked to Gordon yet, he wasn't going to turn to a Romeo over a night just because he'd accepted to sleep occasionally in the same bed with her.

She let out a sigh, picking up the dossier from the table. She opened the folder, and started going through it. Mostly old wrinkled men, in expensive suits, grimacing at her from the photo shots… Much like in the rest of world, Wayne Enterprises' managing board was also dominated by elderly, grey men with tight lips and cold eyes.

She picked up the man who would most likely cause her problems, and frowned at William Earle's rather dashing features. She'd never had to deal with the man in her time in the Wayne Tower, Earle's rocky relationship with Fox had kept him away from her, at least Fox had come in handy for that.

As the thought of the older entered her mind, her frown grew tighter. Sometimes she couldn't believe how her life ended up; here she was, sleeping with the man she had tried to expose, and working _again_ for the man she had tried to blackmail…

Fates had really a great sense of humor, or Bruce Wayne…

Speaking of the devil… the door of the study opened, and Bruce walked in. A sudden please expression appeared over his face, seeing her studying the dossier he had prepared. She shook her head mentally. So easy to _please._

He took the seat across from her, as if to make sure there was a safety line between them. She smiled at him mockingly. "Good file—" she said, flapping through the pages, "I was wondering how many sugar Earle usually takes with his coffee."

"Two—for the morning, one for the night," Bruce deadpanned, "No coffee during the day. He has cardiomyopathy, but keeps it secret."

She shook her head. Why she even tried sometimes she really wondered. "Any more secrets that I _should_ uncover for you?"

His eyes stared at hers. "He's a prick."

She pursed her lips, "That's hardly a secret."

He reflected a half smile, "Yeah."

"A certificated son of a bitch," she continued, and set the photo down on the table, "so, do you think he's scheming again against you?"

"Probably—" Bruce shrugged, "He's never stopped anyway." He shook his head, sighing a little, "That's not what troubles me," he said, "I know where I stand with Earle. But others—"

"You're not sure?"

"Not of everyone—" he said, "They're wild guests…people can go to both sides, and well, the situation… they're not happy with it."

She laughed. "Of course, they're not, darling," she said, a little bit shocked that the endearment have much less of her usual snicker, but sounding real, "You're like asking McCain vote for Obama."

The "Change" campaigned that had elected the first Afro-American president recently hadn't reached to Gotham. After the 2007 recession and 2008 global crisis, America was having its "yes, we can" days but for the Gotham things had turned to worst. Drown in their own miseries, so few had stayed interested what had happened in Gotham in the last years, as no one knew for sure the origins of the fear attack, and all involved parties, including Bruce, kept it that way. For the rest of America, Fear Attack was just one of those crazy things that Gothamites do, much like how the city had spun the Chaos of the Joker, too.

In the neglect, fear, and desperation for safety, the history repeated itself; the citizens of Gotham had turned to their basic instincts, and for the first time in the long years, Gotham turned to a "red state", down to her Mayor; who had promised one thing; a return to normalcy, where there was no Batman, no Joker, no insanity…

Bruce wasn't just trying to bring a change to his city, no, he was trying to bring a change to a city that everyone just wanted everything returned to the ways it used to be.

She sighed again, emotions she couldn't decipher exactly swelling in her chest. For a moment, she just wanted to stand up, walk to him, and hold him tightly. She wanted to tell him he wasn't alone, that he would always have her at her side, that she would never let him down in his fight, but she did none of them. Not because she didn't do sentimental (and she did _not_ ) but because she had no idea how he would react. So she settled with flipping through the pages of the dossier, coming to other board members. She picked up a man's photo with a bad comb-hair with a sneer in his dark brown eyes that even glinted from the shot. "Sherman Howard?"

"Sided with Earle," Bruce responded immediately.

And she was hardly surprised. She held up another one, this time with a straw-blonde hair, which she was sure was an expensive dye-job. "Mr. Blonde here?"

"He stayed neutral at our clash," Bruce supplied, "but after Earle's return, he seemed to angle toward him. Fox heard him a couple of times rising his voice."

She nodded, and took another photo, this time, a familiar one. "Ah, I know this face," she said, looking at Douglas Fredericks, "He used to make "coffee dates" with Fox," she said with a smile.

Bruce smiled faintly back. "They're old friends," he explained, "Fredericks has been always loyal."

She looked at him. "So he's with us?" Well, that was a change.

Bruce heaved a sigh that hinted…otherwise. "He's loyal," he repeated, his voice edging, "I don't suspect that, but last year was hard on him. He lost his daughter in one of the Joker's attack." He paused for a second, "He told me he'd voted for the Mayor Elliot," he continued, "said this _has to_ stop."

"Hmm—" she looked at the photo again, and drew her hand toward the pile that had Earle and his company, "so it's with the douchebag?" she questioned, her hand hovering above the pile.

Bruce shook his head, this time with more certainty. "He's a good man," he said, "When the time comes, he will stand with us."

"Okay," she nodded, and moved her hand to the Fox's rather alone pile, "Back to Fox again." She smiled, "Look, we have company."

Again, he smiled faintly back at her. She smiled further. It was nice, seeing him smiling, as faint as it was. Smiling looked rather good on him, too. He really should smile more. The brief silence stretched out as they looked at each other. "Have you started looking for an assistant?" Bruce asked, breaking it.

Good deflection, Mr. Wayne. God forbid if they talked about the last night… "Well—" she said, shrugging, "I was going to talk to you about that."

His eyebrow clenched with his habitual frown. "Talk to me what?"

"Well, I found one—" she said, looking at him, trying to find a suitable way to break it at him, and decided to bite the bullet, "I asked Rory if he wanted to stay in Gotham—and be my assistant—"

 _"_ _You did what?"_ Bruce all but shouted, leaning toward her at the table.

"And he said yes," she completed.

Bruce was still looking at her, tight eyes narrowed, holding his temper barely in check, she could see it from the way his jaw twitched. She sighed. "Look, I need an assistant, you told yourself, too, someone who can help me, not answer my phone when I'm not in the office," she said, "in order to do that, that person has to know me, really know me."

"So you asked Rory to stay?" Bruce stayed with incredulousness.

She shrugged. "Didn't see a better candidate," she said, "Really, Bruce, I don't understand why you're opposing. He's a good guy. He helped us. He saved our ass, and I like him."

Suddenly his eyes narrowed further, and it made her—feel—nice. God, she really should get a grip of her emotions. This was ridiculous. "As a friend," she added with a smile. "He's fun."

"He broods even more than me," Bruce encountered stiffly.

She smiled further. "See, he's fun." Actually, he wasn't, Rory had become much more lighted over the months, but she wasn't going to correct Bruce on that one.

"You should have told me about it before you did, Valerie," Bruce said after a pause, his frown returning.

She arched her eyebrow. "Would you accept if I did?"

"That's beside the point—" Bruce answered, "You—"

She cut him off, "It's the exact point, Bruce," she said, sighing again, "You only accept things when you're forced into them."

He gave her a look, clearly stating that they were no more talking about just Rory, and soon they were going to have their first "lover quarrel." That must be a record. For god sake, it wasn't even noon yet. They didn't even make a day without fighting. "Perhaps," he remarked, displeasure setting his mouth a tight line, his eyes stern, unyielding, "but that doesn't give you rights to push my hand."

She forced her lips into a smile, knowing but cutting. "You're angry with me, aren't you?" she asked back, looking directly at his eyes, "The Wicked Witch always forcing you out of your comfort zone…"

He heaved out a sharp breath out of his nose. "That wasn't what I meant," he rasped.

A derisive laugh left her lips with a laugh. "Bruce, darling, you should take classes for expressing yourself better," she said, "somehow you always manage saying things that you don't mean."

He opened his mouth, his eyebrows tightened more, but before he could say anything, a light tap at the door was heard, and Alfred followed. "Alfred, we're not—" Bruce started, but stopped as soon as he saw the older man's expression.

She straightened in her seat, too. "Master Bruce," Alfred said, with an unfamiliar urgency, "The DHS agents—" he said, "They're here." Valerie looked at the butler blankly, as Alfred concluded, "They're asking for you, sir."

* * *

With Alfred's words, their first argument vanished into the air, his mind steeled only at the news Alfred had brought. Lawton was here, asking for him… He evened out a breath, his jaw set, "Stay here," he rasped at Valerie.

"Bruce—" Valerie yelled after him, but he didn't stop, and walked out of the study.

He looked at Alfred. "Where are they?" he questioned, walking to his bedroom.

"I took them to the parlor," Alfred answered.

Good. Not exactly inside the house. "Keep them there, and keep them close," he said, opening his door, "I'm coming soon."

He walked in his room, the traces of the last night already wiped away, and took his PJs. He threw off his clothes and started wearing the nightwear. It was still around noon, and Bruce Wayne did _not_ wake up before the afternoon. His hands went to his hair, and he messed it up to add his subterfuge, and put a lazy, untroubled sleepy expression over his face. He took off his shoes and socks, and walked barefoot to the locked drawer at the corner, and pulled out a bottle of Absinth he'd stocked for emergencies.

Such as this.

He opened the bottle, and splashed the liquid over his face and neck, enough to give away the acute stench of alcohol, and checked his appearance over the mirror across the wall. There he was, the careless, always-half-drunken billionaire everyone loved to hate.

In the next fifteen minutes, he waited, then swayed in the parlor barefoot, deciding it was enough. Department of Homeland Security agents looked at his entrance with equally tight frowns, but didn't say anything. "Detectives," he greeted them with a too bright smile, pointedly having the titles wrong, but they didn't correct it, either. "What has brought you to my humble abode?"

"We'd like to talk with you, Mr. Wayne," the redhead deputy of Lawton answered with a stiff but professionally kind voice, "if you can spare us a minute, of course."

Bruce threw himself at the sofa behind, placing a dirty smile at his lips as he gave her a detailed, long, overall, "Darling, for you, I can spare even two," he smoothed, his eyes returning to hers.

She smiled at him, as if she'd very much like to take his head off. Bruce recalled those notes he saw again. "You're too generous, sir," she almost spat.

During the whole exchange Lawton stayed motionless, just watching him silently, with those eyes. Gordon had mentioned about his eye with a note before, and Bruce had looked it up. As his file was classified, he couldn't find anything, but he took Lawton's words to Gordon true. Lawton wasn't someone who would lie things about this. He had lost his eyes on the duty, but still, it hadn't stopped him.

The truth had put a whole difference meaning to his codename; Deadshot, he never misses, no matter what. A grimace threatened to break over, but with force, he kept his lips strained out with the smile. "So what do you want to talk about?" he asked, coming to the point. His lips had already started hurting.

Lawton looked at him, expressionless and rigid, and declared, "About Cameron Reese."


	10. Part III-II

**Part III. II – "Forced Hands"**

* * *

Bruce put a surprised look on his face, and try to hold it hanging there with everything he had. "Sorry—who?" He widened his eyes for a fraction to cast confusion.

"Cameron Reese," Lawton answered as stiffly as before, "The woman you saved at the day the Joker exploded the Gotham Hospital."

A light in his eyes must have lighted with recognition. "Ah, that blond chick!" he exclaimed, then frowned a bit with more confusion, "What about her?"

Lawton looked at him blankly. "She's dead."

And something was wrong, too much that even the half drunken, careless fool of a billionaire wouldn't miss it. So he let his eyebrows tighten a bit. "And you came here to break me the news?" he asked, then faked a laugh, leaning back in the sofa, and crossed his left leg over his knee, "Well, thanks for your troubles. She was one pretty chick." He pursed his lips. "Pity she's kicked the bucket." He shifted his eyes between them, his poise was a totem of power of the money, and asked, because _even_ Bruce Wayne couldn't be that stupid. "That's very kind of you coming to inform me—personally, detectives," he repeated the wrong title on purpose, "so I'm gonna have to ask—why exactly?"

This time it was the redhead agent who answered his inquiry. "You're involved with her case," she said, "But no one has questioned you properly—" she continued with a grimace, and added after a thought, " _sir._ "

And there was a reason for that, not that they would know. Bruce shrugged. "I already talked with the Commissioner at the scene—" he answered, "Was trying to catch the green."

The agent gave him an overall, too, like he'd done to her. "Drunken," she asked, but it was more of a statement.

Again, he shrugged, his shoulder lifting with an unabashed ease. "Can't help it."

The repulsion in her eyes grew more. "Did you know she'd been a fugitive since her escape from the police safe house?" Lawton asked.

He looked at him with surprise. "She escaped from the police safe house?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne," Lawton answered with a low voice, Bruce expected him to get him a bit frustrated until now, but there was no emotion in him, he was still hard-fact-cold. He shouldn't be surprised, not really. "She escaped from the police safe house two weeks after the accident." His eyes –one death, one electrical—look at him intently. "Funny no one mentioned it to you before."

Again, the hidden accusation in the words were too much obvious for anyone to miss it. "What's that you're trying to suggest, dec?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Being a fugitive, Mr. Wayne," Lawton said, his eyes still fixed at him, "is very expensive. Hypothetically speaking, she must have had help from a very powerful friend to stay hidden that long, that well."

He shot out a loud laughter, driving his head back as if he had heard the funniest joke as ever as the same time his insides coiled into a stone. "You're trying to say I helped her to escape, detective?" He laughed again, taking his leg off his knee, "Why would I do _that_?"

Agent Gray interjected their exchange. "You're in the Forbes' top ten list of the wealthiest men in the world aren't you, Mr. Wayne?"

He turned to her with a leer. "I'm at the top three, actually," he croaked with a smirk, "but what's that have anything to do with Cameron Reese?"

"You're very rich," she answered as if it was too much obvious, "and since when rich do need a reason to do anything?"

Bruce laughed again, leaning forward, and placed his elbows on his knees in a pose of intense attention. "Let me see if I understand it right," he told her, "You're trying to say –hypothetically speaking—I helped her to escape because I'm a bored billionaire—?" Without a word, they looked at him back. "So what happens next?" he asked, when they didn't speak, "I –hypothetically speaking— got bored with her, and washed my hands off her, and she—died on the prowl?" He laughed again, not bothered with the accusations, "What's that? The plot of a bad movie?"

"We're just—spinning ideas, sir," Gray said with the same voice, forcefully kind, but hinting just another thing, "hypothetically speaking."

Bruce looked at her with a crook smile. "I liked you," he announced, leaning back again, spreading his arms wide over the sofa's back, "I like girls with creative mind, you're the most fun." His look turned heavier, as his eyes roamed over her, "Have dinner with me tonight," he demanded.

Again, she looked at him with disdain. "You wouldn't take it," she hissed, turning on her heels.

"You would be surprised," he yelled after her with a laugh, as Lawton still looked at him intently. "Sorry, buddy, you're not my type," he shot at him, plastering a way too big grin on his face.

Lawton laughed with a faint, derisive laugh. "Have a good day, Mr. Wayne." And he turned, and left too.

As they vanished from the parlor, his grin vanished too. The next second Valerie barged into the room, looking terrified. "Oh my god," she said, slumping at the chair across the sofa, "How they have realized it?" she questioned, but it was more directed to herself.

Still, he answered. "Did you think I was exaggerating when I said it's dangerous for us to be seen together in public?" he asked, leaning back, suddenly feeling tired. Nothing, nothing was going well with his life. Every time he thought he closed something, closed for good, another was opening in its place.

With his words, her attention snapped at him. "No, I knew it," she said, punctuating each word clearly, "That's why I agreed to keep it secret." She bit her lips, looking at him. "What are we going to do now?" There was a fear in her voice now, something that clouded her eyes with uncertainty.

Then he understood what she was afraid of. She was scared that he might want to blow things off, even before they'd started for real. For a moment or so, he thought about it. Somehow he knew this was his last chance, the last exit before the bridge, and if he didn't take this turn, there would be only one direction to go then; ahead…on a road full of unknowns.

Every logic told him to take it, he couldn't do it, he _shouldn't_ do it, it was nothing but madness, but as she looked at him with those eyes, he just couldn't open his mouth and end things. Another thing he just "cannot not."

He heaved out a deep sigh, and walked to her. "What we always do," he said, his voice drooping into a rasp, staring at her directly, his look of a promise in itself, for the things that would come, "We will fight."

* * *

The rest of the week passed—uneventful. They didn't finish what they'd started in the study before they were interrupted, and Valerie added the unfinished talk into the piling heap of the things that they pretended not existing.

At the end, with slight difference, everything turned how it was supposed to be. There was one almost-uprising in the Narrows, and a group from the Anti-Dent Act platform, led by the activist lawyer Derrick Malkin, had started a new protest for the Act 1010, settling up tents in the Central Park that looked at the City Hall. They'd been occupying the east side of the park now for three days, and weren't looking like they would leave soon, too.

On the Wednesday night, Bruce dated with a former-supermodel-newly-turned-to-movie star who happened to drop by Gotham for her new shooting, and the tabloids went mad with his new accomplishment. Sitting in the study alone, focused at the dossier in front of him, Valerie didn't let it bother her. It was just a show, so what happened if he stuck his tongue into her throat for a full minute, groping her ass, all while in front of the cameras. She wasn't even that beautiful, anyways. If _she_ had those bow legs, no one would have made her wear a mini skirt. When he returned, he took a shower first before he came to the bed. Valerie appreciated the gesture, but it didn't change the fact she could still smell the faint remnants of the woman's heavy perfume on his skin while they had sex.

On the other news, he tried to bug Lawton and his redhead deputy; another woman he'd asked on a date, and it was rather sad that the only woman he hadn't dated yet was the one who he ended up fucking each night. She thought some improvement had to be made for that. They could at least go on a date, it wasn't like that he couldn't go undercover, but she didn't know how to ask. There was always _something_ to do first.

The bugs died from the jammer that the agents seemed to carry around everywhere they went. Bruce had another episode, almost went out to catch and question the agents personally, but cooled down after breaking his long staff in exercise in the gym. Good grief. She'd gotten a liking watching him as he twirled it around and above his body.

Hmm, perhaps she should get him a new staff for his birthday.

Funny as it was, as of the moment that was her the most pressing problem; she had no idea what to get him for his birthday. A certified jerk as he was, he always knew what to give her when it mattered; all of his _gifts_ had an emotional value, something only she could understand what they meant; her bracelets after the fashion of her childhood dreams, her business card… what she'd buy him for a present? At her birthday June, Bruce had been in Gotham, and she was still Caracas, so it wasn't an issue, yet at her birthday, she still got a glass-pearl necklace from Swarovski, elegant but affordable. That was another thing he always made sure when it came to giving her something; if he wanted he'd have given a real pearl necklace, hell, he could have even give her a diamond necklace, but no, Bruce hadn't done that.

So, logically, she angled at that way. The problem with that he was Bruce Wayne. She hadn't had a pearl necklace, whereas he had everything. Literally everything. He was a billionaire. What she could buy to a fucking billionaire?

"Perhaps we're looking it at the wrong way," Rory said, as they strolled in the streets. As she had an assistant now, she had thought she would benefit from it, and asked Rory to accompany her, providing a man's eye. Jason was curious, of course, but he let them go, just with a snicker laugh. They both pretended not to hear it. Her father was the last person she wanted to talk these days. Luckily enough, with a new found consideration for other's feelings, he left her alone.

She turned her head from the watch's showcase, and arched an eyebrow at him. "Like what?"

"We're looking for the common consumer goods," he said, shrugging, "but for a present, you should go more with—a hobby."

She laughed. "Hobby," she asked, shaking her head, "Sorry, have you met the guy? He doesn't have hobbies—" She paused, then leaned toward him to whisper conspiring, "as long as you don't count building up five hundred millions worth of Nomex survival suits a hobby."

"Well, there is that, too," Rory agreed. They departed from the watch stand. Bruce usually wore his Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso during the day, and wore a three hundred millions dollars custom-made Patek Philippe for his dinner dates, so buying him a Guess seemed ridiculous. She pursed her lips, sucking in a breath, as Rory suddenly perked up, and caught her elbow. "Come on, let's go. I know what we can buy."

Ten minutes later, in a bookshop, she stared at a Zorro special edition. "Zorro?" she muttered, her eyes driving away from the book to Rory, "That's your idea. Buying him Zorro."

"Perfect, isn't it?" Rory asked back with a ghostly smile, "It's just him—rich, brooding, wears a mark—"

"Okay, okay, I got your point," she said, laughing, then looked at the book at the shelf. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it. It wasn't anything big, but it was something that meant for them, and Bruce would like it, she was sure of it.

She bought it. Leaving Rory back at the hotel, she walked to the manor. Soon she was going to need to turn back to hotel, or the penthouse herself, but she postponed the idea as long as she could. They could barely see each other now living in the same house. She had no idea how they'd do it if she moved out, too. Walking to her car, her eyes caught the photo of Bruce and the supermodel-turned-to-movie-star kissing on a tabloid on a shelf at a newspaper stand. Her body stopped moving. She told herself it was okay, it wasn't even the first time she'd seen him at the tabloids kissing an exotic beauty— _I don't want to be happy, I want to be with you…_ her words echoed in the blankness of her mind…her eyes darting around, then they fell at her present.

With a sneer, she threw it in the dustbin beside her, and went to the first department store she found. She bought the cheapest, the ugliest –dark blue with little silver dots—tie she'd ever seen, and instantly felt better.

She gave him the present—she wasn't going to do it at his birthday, so cliché— with a daring smirk, but he just took it with a smile, as if she'd given him the most beautiful thing in the world, and pecked her lightly at the lips. In the afternoon, next to his Armani suit, Reverso watch, and Salvatore Ferragamo shoes, he wore her ugly no-brand tie before he left for the Wayne Tower.

She really tried to hinder it, she really did, but she couldn't help her chest swell with emotions she didn't know what to do, her stomach twisting so improperly… "Bruce—" she called after him even before she knew what she was doing. He turned aside at the door, and looked at her. "What are you doing tonight?"

"Bottlecup called last night," he answered, looking at her with eyes half-narrowed, "He's in with a group. I'm gonna see him."

She immediately frowned. "Are you going out?" It was still too early, and he still hadn't found a way to deal with Lawton and his force.

"Sort of," he said, shrugging, "I'll go without the Suit." He paused, his eyes turning heavier, "Why did you ask?"

She shrugged, smiling weakly. "Nothing it can't wait," she answered, turning to go back to the study. Tomorrow it was Friday; the big day for the detective Valerie. She should get ready, anyway.

"Valerie—" he called after her. She stopped. "Why did you ask?" he repeated.

Revealing a breath out, she turned around. "I was thinking—if you're not busy—we could go to a dinner or something—" she rushed out in one breath, "You could take a cover, and I know this reclusive place just outside the city…" she trailed off.

Walking to her, he gave her a little smile. "Make a reservation for the next Monday, okay?" he asked, "I'll arrange the rest."

She nodded. He gave her a quick kiss, and left.

The next morning, she woke up in the bed alone. She stood up, and started preparing to go the Wayne Tower, telling herself it didn't matter Bruce wasn't there, with her, at least for today, of the all days.

As she put on a dark beige suit with a fitted jacket, and trying to decide which shoes she would combine with it, Bruce walked in the bedroom, with a tray in his hand.

She looked at him, frozen in her place, as he smiled at her warmly. "Good morning," he said, like nothing had happened, placing the tray on the table.

"Bruce?" she asked, walking to the table, because her eyes must be deceiving her, because what she saw couldn't be true. "What's this?"

He smiled even more, and took her hand, and settled her at the chair. "Breakfast," he answered simply, as he sat on the chair opposite of her, "Cooked it for you."

She looked at the omelet in front of her. "You did?"

He shrugged. "Yeah."

"Why?" the question suddenly poured out of her, and she wasn't even sure what exactly she was asking, either.

Bruce, however, answered like he did, with a certainty that left no room for any doubt, speculation, or fear. "For the same reason why I keep doing things when it comes to you, Valerie," he said, his voice low yet earnest, "Because I wanted to."

Then she understood it, and knew they could make it work, simply because no one, _no one,_ including her _,_ could force Bruce Wayne's hands to do something he didn't want to do at the first place.

Taking up the fork, she smiled at him.


	11. Part III-III

**Part III. III – "Lying down with dogs"**

* * *

"How's your day passed?"

Alone in the cave, the simple question had Valerie whisk aside, looking at Bruce with mild confusion. Fixing his hard copper tool belt around his jumpsuit, preparing to meet with his CI, Bruce looked at her back. For any other couple the situation would seem normal, but they were no other couple, and Bruce Wayne was _not_ interested with the trivialities of daily life… then she understood.

Today wasn't a normal day, and he wasn't asking how her _day_ had passed, but he was making an inquiry to know how her meeting with the board member had gone. Though why he'd voiced the question like that, she didn't know. Perhaps, an involuntary slip… He'd prepared her breakfast, after all, with roses and all. Cooked for her, _specifically_ for her. A man must be _really_ slipping to do that.

A smile broke over her lips, as her stomach made those stupid flip-flops, and before she knew it, she was grinning at him idiotically. Bruce raised his eyebrow with suspicion. "Valerie?"

She shook her head. "Sorry," she said, bowing her head, because she was sure a heat was rushing out of her. God, what the hell was happening to her! She couldn't blush! She couldn't blush just because of a look and simple phrase of word. Yet, her cheeks were heating like she was on fire.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," she mumbled, passing him his balaclava. "Better than I expected, I guess," she said, lifting her head.

"They didn't cause you trouble?" he asked, skepticism high and clear in his tone, as if he was waiting a lot worse from his board.

Valerie wouldn't blame him for that. "Nothing I couldn't handle," she said, "it was a short meeting anyway. We shook his hands, Fox declared by the bylines of the company's book, I've got a clear authorization to question any situation for anyone." She paused, throwing at him a little wan smile, "Earle wasn't happy, but that's expected. He mumbled something like…if Fox stooped this low, he at least would've had the courtesy of hiring a male detective."

She had said it to make the situation lighter, but Bruce took her words at the opposite way. His eyes sharpened, a steely look glazing them, "In front of you?"

Baffled again with his reaction, she shrugged, darting her eyes away. "One day I'm gonna punch that man," he mumbled sotto voce, sucking in a rasped breath.

She laughed. "As much as I'd like to see that, I'm not sure if it'd be good for your cover."

"Yeah."

"When will you return?" she asked.

"Before the midnight, probably," he answered, "I'll leave you to the hotel after I return."

As tomorrow was his birthday, the manor was going to fill with hired stuff from the catering company in the early dawn. She would need to leave, but she didn't want to leave not before he returned. Shoot her, she'd become a mother hen. She smiled, walking closer to him. "Wanna stay, too?" she asked, "You can slip away later. I dropped by Victoria's Secret today. Felt like I should give you a better gift than that hideous tie."

There was a different glint in his eyes at the mention of the lingerie brand, less sharp but more heated. "I don't know," he said with another kind of rasping voice that she first heard from him, rougher, drawing her even closer, and took her in his embrace, "I really liked that tie."

She smiled, wilder, leaning over his chest to brush her lips over his, "Trust me, you'll like Victoria better."

* * *

In the heart of the darkness, Bruce was crouched motionlessly at the large flange of a building in the deep Narrows, watching as Bottlecup and his new company painted a Circle-A over the plaster wall of the building.

The wind carried the murmured voices up to him. "You dolt—you dolt—" rambled angrily the young man in his middle twenties to the younger one standing next to him, pushing the Guy Fawkes mask over his forehead, "You fucked it up, Bubble." He gestured the Circle-A that had a more an oval than a circle now.

The other street kid turned to him furiously, taking his own mask up, too, " _You_ fucked it up, bastard," he jerked the words with a hiss, swallowing through the gum in his mouth, his fingers balling into fists.

For a moment, Bruce thought the two would start fighting, but before things escalated, Bottlecup interrupted, making another—wider circle over the oval shape, "There yo' go guys," Bottlecup chirped, rolling the words over the plate of his mouth, shaking his cornrows, "Done it." He turned to the younger street kid, "Bubble Gum, yo, pass me the black pain'," he shifted aside the older one, "Bastard, template."

A second passed before Bruce understood the oldest of the trio was actually called Bastard. He frowned. Bottlecup…Bubble Gum…Bastard… Street kids, never belonged to somewhere always made sure adopt different names, or nicknames, anything other than their real names, perhaps another rebellion at the fate.

The thought brought his mind to Valerie—the way she always refused to use her real name. Bruce knew despite his own time abroad, Valerie understood these kids in a way he could never do. As his thoughts wandered toward her, their last conversation infiltrated his consciousness. With a sharp intake of breath, Bruce shoved off the sudden image of her in a satin slip, and forcefully dragged his attention back to where it belonged.

He had a job now, he couldn't be distracted. Especially with _that._

As Bottlecup finished with the template, they stepped back and watched their handiwork, the curtly stylized _the Unheards—Our voice will be heard—_ looking at them back. Bubble Gum smiled, something very akin to content, as he ballooned his gum, and turned to his other friend, "Tis' like ol' days, ain't that right, Dan?" The balloon erupted with a silent hiss.

And, he had a name now. Dan. Bastard Dan. The young man didn't answer, but only grumbled. "Like you, me, and Boy—" Bubble Gum continued, turning at Bottlecup, "Now, we have Bottlecup. We're again three musketeers!"

Dan spat on the pavement, his face souring. "Who's…Boy?" Bottlecup asked, when Dan didn't speak. "Did I meet him?"

A sad expression appeared over Bubble's face, something made Bruce more intact. There was really hurt in the young man's watery eyes, hurt and longing. "No—he's—gone." He paused. "One day he was here—the next—puff!"

"Fuck," Bottlecup muttered.

"I liked him—" Bubble Gum continued, "When they gave out the candies in the orphanage, and when I couldn't reach out, he used to give me his." He smiled with crooked, yellowish teeth. "Was good at that way."

"Stupid," Dan interjected.

"You _are_ stupid, Bastard," Bubble Gum fired fiercely.

His face expressionless, Bruce watched the strange exchange. There was something he could place with them, reminding him his own time in the streets…but he didn't let himself to think of those times, too. He might not wear his Suit and the cowl, but he was still Batman.

Dan spat at the pavement again. "I fucking hate when you get all emotion and shit, Bubble," he grounded, taking the mask completely off his head, "let's fuck off here before cops come. They say Guy will talk tonight. Don't wanna miss it."

They turned, but Bottlecup stayed behind. "I—I been remembered something, man—" he said, rather lamely coming up an excuse, turning the other side from them, "will see ya later."

Bubble Gum and Dan both shrugged, and went ahead. As soon as they got lost around the corner, Bruce leaped from his hidden place, and landed on the fire escape platform under him smoothly. "William," he rasped from Bottlecup's behind.

The young man jolted on his feet at the sudden mention of his real name, and swirled around. "Man! You scared shit outta me." Engulfed in the shadows, Bruce looked down at him. Bottlecup started fidgeting. "There ain't no words from you. Too much cops after you…That's why you suit up like 'tis?" he asked, his eyes traveling over his simple black jumpsuit, and head hidden balaclava.

Bottlecup was a smart kid, that's why Bruce had chosen him. "Who are they?" he rasped, though, instead of answering his question.

"The guys I mentioned—" Bottlecup answered, "Met them in a pit that wagers cockfight—"

He grimaced. He'd been closing those places since the last year, but Narrows simply had too many of them to keep the track of the things when he didn't have the police back-up with him. "What do you know?" he growled.

"Well, nothing much—" Bottlecup answered with a shrug, "there's 'tis place they meet—a sort of tavern. They go to there and listen to this guy."

"Who?" Batman asked.

"Guy," Bottlecup answered, "They call him, Guy. No one who he's…he talks from radio… He talks, they listen."

"Where is this tavern?" Batman rasped, his hands already on the rails to pull himself up to the roof.

"Badger St, 43," Bottlecup quickly supplied.

Without another word, Batman moved into shadows.

Before he landed back at the roof, though, he heard Valerie's voice. "Bruce, that's not a good idea," she said, as he asked Alfred, "Alfred, trackers."

"The neighborhood is clean, sir," Alfred answered, and added after a pause, "as much as we know."

"I'll make sure no one sees me," he told to console both of them. Even though, Alfred had further opposition he kept them himself, but Valerie was another case. She made a voice, but he spoke first, "Requesting radio silence," he demanded.

" _Fine_ ," came his answer with a clipped voice. "Have your silence."

Bruce shut off the tone, and moved on to the tavern.

The Narrows owed its name to its narrow streets on strange angles and curves. Badger Street was one of those narrow streets that straitened curtly to cause a bottleneck at the end of the street. The end of the bottleneck the tavern who was looking for stood anonymously.

It was a two stories plastered building with no sign at the front, as a "closed" door plate hanging over the entrance door. Standing at the edge of the low building at the corner of the street, he had a clear advantage of the whole street. For a half of hour, he watched the streets, but no one came. At the end of the hour, he thought there must be another entrance.

Five minutes later, he found it; a little side door that opened up the dead alley nearby, where a fidgeting young boy standing at the front, smoking a cigarette with a bowed head. Two young boy, and a girl appeared from the other side of the street, and walked through the door, no greeting for the fidgeting lookout, but the young man gave them a fleeting look under from his bowed head.

From his tool belt, Bruce pulled out the wire cam, and started drooping it over the length of the building. When he caught the sight of a slightly open window at the second floor, he directed it inside, and checked the interior of the building. It was a dusty hall that filled by young men and women that seated on the floor in a circle, whose ages diverted on a wide scale, there were teenagers, barely making their sixteens, and there were people around his age that made the external circle. In the circle, between two black guy, and a Latino girl, on a platform stood an old style radio transmitter.

There was a reverence in the silence of the room, as they listened to what the radio said; _"Brothers and sisters,"_ from above the building, Bruce heard the dispatched voice from the radio delivered his greeting, _"Away from you, I sit in my dark confines, and think, and weep. But no one hears."_ The baritone male voice had a deep sadness, grief even in the scratchy disturbance of the radio waves, something that made Bruce even more alert.

"Alfred," he rasped, "Trace the transmitter," he ordered, "Can you zero in it?"

"Negative, sir," Alfred responded after a brief silence in which Bruce had heard the sounds of hitting keyboards. "Too much old technology, our satellite can't tracked the analog interface."

Bruce glanced down, and looked at the radio again; something from a vintage gallery, from the back of the days of the War.

 _"They strive, with no care, no consideration, with no responsibility!" With the last words the voice took a suddenly fire, the scratch deepening, "Our cries have fallen on muted ears, dusty death hearts. But what cries they have failed to hear? What tears? The plight of the poor after they have taken everything, and have left so little? Or the promises of justice while each day a baby died because of hunger?"_ The voice raised another octave with its arising fire, _"They've failed to hear that their society are far more concerned about the status quo and tranquility than about justice and humanity, so that they can live in their perfect mute, dusty death worlds that they've built upon our pain."_

 _"No more!"_ the altered voice bellowed out, " _No more we play this game. One day—one day, we'll raise our heads, and look at the sky, and will scream—and be assured, when that day comes, there will be no running, there will be no escaping from our righteous fury."_

 _"Spread the word, comrades!"_ The deep echo reverberated the hall with the force of it, _"When that day comes, OUR VOICE WILL BE HEARD!"_

A cold stone dropped in his stomach. He pulled back the wire cam, and called in, "Alfred," he rasped, "Find me that radio," he ordered. "This's worse than we've thought."

* * *

He couldn't see _Victoria_ then, of course. Valerie just returned to the hotel alone, as Alfred and Bruce stayed behind to look for the transmission. Despite their best efforts, they couldn't find the point of origin. Instead, Bruce recorded the ferocious speech, and started analyzing the voice, crosschecking it to find anything related in the databases.

Lying in the bed alone in the hotel room, her last thought was the voice she'd heard in the cave. Bruce was right, it was worse than they had thought.

An outbreak was breeding in the heart of Gotham, and it was only a time before it spread ahead.

* * *

The next evening, before the sky completely darkened, Valerie gave the last overall at her reflection in the mirror, and decided that she looked enough professional and elegant for a dinner party that was hosted by her boss.

Even though the party was going to a black tie occasion, for her gown was out of the question. As freelance as she might be, she was still an employee of Wayne Enterprises, newly hired, and no self-respected business woman would go with a party of her boss like she was going to her sister's wedding. A cocktail dress should do. So like any girl in a crisis, she twisted her hair in a simple updo and opted a "little black dress" which only had black lace decorating over its V neck, neither too revealing nor too conservative. To complete the dress, and just because she _wanted to,_ she put Bruce's pearl necklace, too.

Taking her coat, she left the hotel room, only to be greeted by her father and Rory in the corridor. In black suits, they both looked different, though Jason had left his bowtie at home, not even bothering with a regular tie. Well, he was wearing a suit, at least, she told herself.

They took a taxi, and went to the manor. She felt—she didn't know, a bit intimidated. It wasn't her first time she'd slipped in a formal party, pretending to be something for one thing and another, but this was different.

First of all, she wasn't pretending, and second she had never cared what those people had thought about her before. Now, she was a detective, for real, a detective that worked for a multinational business empire, and to do her business well she needed these people get to respect her.

And there was Bruce, too…whom she was going to officially meet the first time… who was going to attend the party with _three_ dates… Because obviously one single woman wasn't enough for the birthday boy. She sighed inwardly, wondering what kind of jerkiness she was going to find tonight in her plate.

The manor was different. Different, different, as if the house itself had gone under a change like the master of it. Gone the bleak, haunting façade of the Gothic mansion, now stood in its place a living, buzzing nest of vanity, power, and money in parade. The ball room was lighted with big chandeliers that casted a warm light the whole interior, as people circled around, steady smiles plastered at the lips, like sharks circling around a bleeding prey.

She had no idea why she felt this defensive, and she wasn't going to stop and think her reactions either. It wasn't like that she let those money-mongering, fake-teeth douchebags get the best of her. She would kick their asses even at her worst.

Leaving Jason and Rory at the bar, she wasn't _even_ going there, she padded toward the buffet. There was more than a dozen waitresses in the slick black serving costumes serving drinks and aperitifs, wandering around, but she needed to keep herself busy until Fox brought her to Bruce. She picked up a few hors d'oeuvre in her plate, and tried to find anything non-alcoholic.

There was none. There was every kind of booze one could dream of; champagne, bourbon, whiskey, vodka, gin, even beer… but there was no coke, no Fanta, no soda, not even damn water. "Great—" she muttered under breath with ire, "Juuuust great."

The man standing beside her at the line in front of the bar threw at her a glance, then smiled, taking her silent curse at the wrong way. "Hard to decide, isn't it?" he asked.

Grimacing, she pursed her lips. "Not really," she said.

Understanding lit in his eyes. "Ah—I see—" He paused, looking around, then leaned toward her, "Wait here a second."

She looked at his retreating back, as he suddenly turned and walked toward the backside of the bar. A few seconds later, he returned, with a club soda in his hands. She looked at him, revealing a sigh, her eyes grateful. "And I thought gentlemen had gone long ago extinct."

He laughed; an easy, clear voice, "Now, that's a first. Never been accused being a gentleman before."

Smiling, she looked at him. He looked familiar. He had dark brown slick hair that fell cropped until his neck, and stubble in the same color around his chin and upper lip, and a bright set of lighter brown eyes, sharp and intelligent over a face that had strong Indian heritage. His look was average; he was averagely tall, averagely handsome, but the glint in his eyes gave him a different air; intense yet effortless. And he damn looked familiar. She knew she'd seen him before, just couldn't place it anywhere. He didn't look like the types that would be hired by Wayne Enterprises, let alone get invited to the Bruce Wayne's birthday, but…

"Hmm—" she hummed, her smile turning a bit sly, close to flirty; well, she'd better sharpen her skills… She'd been out of the game _so_ long, and it wasn't like that Bruce would mind it… "Should I ask what you're usually being accused?" she asked, moving away from the table to a corner, away from the cluster of the people.

He shrugged, following her. "The usual things—public enemy, dissonant, dissident…" he smiled, taking a seep from his beer, "And, my personal favorite, insurgent."

Then she recognized him. He was that activist lawyer from the Anti-Dent Act platform, the one who had just started an occupation movement in the Central Park, the one Bruce had classified having ties with mob, but they had discovered later it was because he took the slum kids cases from the Dent-Act pro-bono. Derrick Malkin, she remembered the name, too, and she understood where he was familiar, she had been seeing him at the Vicki Vale's night show on the cable.

But what the hell an activist was doing in the Bruce Wayne's damn birthday. She narrowed her eyes. "I know you," she said, the flirtatious attitude gone, leaving its place to an acute skepticism, "You're that lawyer from Anti-Dent Act platform."

He heaved a sigh. "Building myself a rep, ain't I?"

"Well, kinda," she said, "What are you doing?"

His eyebrow rose at her blunt question. "Lobbying—" he said simply, "Doctor Quinzel wants us to gain some support for—the cause."

Doctor Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. An accomplished psychiatrist, the doctor was the managing director of Arkham, one of the figureheads of the Anti-Dent Act Platform, and the leading doctor of the Joker's case. Oh, well. "I see," she remarked, her lips turning to a grimace.

He gave a look, his eyes half-narrowed, too, then they loosened. "So, what are you doing here?" he asked. She arched her eyebrow. He shrugged again. "I mean no insult, in fact, I mean it as flattery, but you don't look like these types—" His hand vaguely waved in the air.

Inwardly, she sighed. She wouldn't—shouldn't stand out this much. "Work," she said, and paused. "Basically I'm here to make observations."

In return, he raised his eyebrows back at her. "I'm working for Wayne Enterprises, I'm their PI," she explained, a touch of proud tinting her tone.

He looked at her impressed. "Well, that explains," he said, "and I might say that you're very good at your work."

She smirked. "Yes, I am."

"So you're here to observe who's gonna sneak away the booze from Wayne?"

"Don't forget the silverware," she shot back.

"Ah, yes, knives and forks are important."

"The keystones of the western civilization," she agreed. It was nice, the easy conservation, the back and forth, effortless but hinting a bit of harmless flirt. She'd missed it. All of her conversations or not-conversation with Bruce or Jason was so intense that she was missing the easy. That was why she had opted to spend time with Rory in the last days. Rory was an edged man, too, unbalanced, but at least with him, words didn't fail her.

Taking a sip from his beer, he looked at her. "So—any tips you can give me?" he asked, "Who I shall stay away?"

She laughed. "Almost everyone?"

Suddenly he grimaced, the ease in his gestures gone. "It couldn't be that bad," he said sternly.

She shook her head. "Sorry—most of this room are devoted followers of the Mayor Elliot," she said, "And supporter of the Dent Act. They believe it's making a progress."

He scoffed, his eyes losing their earlier warmth. "Old money—" he said with disdain, "Always ready to turn a blind eye to the freedom as long as they keep making money."

She shook her head, suddenly finding herself in the position to defend them. Life was odd. "It's not just that. They want to feel safe again. You can hardly blame them for that."

His eyes turned even colder. "Actually, I can," he rasped, "Those who would give up freedom for security deserve neither," he intoned the famous quote stiffly.

"They aren't that bad—" she said, defending them again. Why, she didn't even know. A snicker should have pursed her lips either in an equal disdain. It was old money, something she'd always hated. Oh god, what the hell was happening to her, what the hell was happening to her!

A sudden, blind panic rose inside her. Her hands trembling, she almost reached to the beer he was holding. She tried to take a breath, but her lungs weren't functioning. The lights from chandelier started turning above the tall ceiling, the walls coming upon her. Her stomach churned, as her blood roared in her eardrums. "Sorry—" she mumbled, "I gotta go," she said, almost running to the balcony to her left.

Blindly, she threw outside, and tried to get her emotions in control. Bile raised in her throat, her ears still drumming, and she almost threw up, but kept it inside at the last moment. She couldn't have an episode, not now. Not fucking now. She had to be strong. Goddammit, she _was_ strong.

She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine how Bruce had calmed down in the morgue, his voice…firm yet gentle…telling her it was okay, she was okay.

 _It's okay_ , her eyes still closed, the words echoed in her hazy mind. _You're okay._

Exhaling a deep breath, she opened her eyes, and returned to the ball room, and inside an eager, openly staring circle she saw him, flunked by two long-legged girl at one side, and with another at the other, his arms draped over their shoulders, he leaned forward with a drunken glee, the boyish charm at full force. She sighed, bottling up her water glass as if it was scotch. This was going to suck.

His head craned, and he whispered something to one of the girls, as the girl giggled in response. He lowered his arm then from the shoulder, wandering south toward her hip. She turned aside, starting walking away, then stopped dead in her tracks.

Jason was talking Doctor Quinzel. She stared at her father, closing her eyes, giving away slow breaths. Great, just fucking great. The blonde woman was looking like a no-nonsense woman in her middle forties, yet, when she laughed at what Jason almost whispered at her ear, she looked like a schoolgirl.

Oh dear god! They were flirting. Her father was flirting with the fucking _therapist_ of the Joker!

She walked to them purposely, and took Jason at his elbow tightly. "I'm sorry," she said between tight lips, and dragged him away to the corner.

"What the hell, kiddo," Jason pulled off his arm free, "What are you doing?"

"What are _you_ doing, father?" she shot back furiously.

"I'm having fun—" He opened his palms to the sides, "You should try to get some, too. You've really started sounding like your boyfriend."

She took a step closer, ignoring his jab. "Do you even know who she's?"

"Of course, I know," Jason bit off, as if he was affronted, "That's why I went to talk to her. I want to know more about that son of a bitch that almost got my daughter killed."

Looking at him with a steely look, she warned, pressing on each word, "Stay away from her."

He threw at her a grin. "Too late," he said, "I already asked her dinner tomorrow night."

 _"_ _You did what?"_

"She said yes, too." He paused, suddenly a frown appearing above his eyebrows, "Do you know a place I can take her to?"

The incredulousness shone in her eyes, as she shook her head at him. "Bruce's gonna have your hide this time."

He laughed. "God, kiddo, he's really turned you to himself."

A silent "argh" erupted out of her before she turned on her heels and moved away. The last thing she heard before she cleared off him was his voice with a deep sigh. "Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas."

She pretended she hadn't understood what that meant.


	12. Part III-IV

**Part III. IV – "All's well that ends well"**

* * *

Before it was nine o'clock in the evening, Gordon was climbing the massive staircase of the Wayne Manor, his insides in a stage of turmoil as much as his mind. He'd gotten the invitation via Lucius Fox _before_ he had learned the truth, because of his other –now became clear—collaboration for the technological equipment. It wasn't odd, as the Commissioner of the Gotham PD he had become a figurehead of the city, but now he didn't know what to expect.

After the accident, and their chase of _another_ Batman, Wayne hadn't said a word, not a single one, though he wasn't denying it, either. He had texted him about Lawton's accident, but there was no response. When he heard Lawton had given him a visit, this time he decided he should wait. Tonight, they would talk—at least a bit.

Though, he still didn't know what to expect.

In front of the heavy wooden entrance doors, he was greeted by his old butler, the same man he'd seen picking up a young Bruce Wayne from the police headquarters, years ago. He had been thinking of that night a lot since the accident, and when he did things were making sense a bit. The way the young child looked like that night, the look he had given Gordon when he'd draped his father's jacket over his shoulder, trying to assure him everything was going to be okay, the scare in his eyes…

Yes, it was all making sense.

"Commissioner," the butler greeted him with a smile at the threshold, "It's good to see you here, sir."

Gordon looked at the older man's twinkling eyes and warm smile, then understood he knew. "Let's hope he feels the same way," Gordon muttered before he crossed the door.

The butler smiled again, but there was no words back. Gordon followed the crowd entering into the ball room, and immediately was greeted with a Bruce Wayne, who was circled with three beautiful women —blonde, brunette, and red-haired— in the middle of the spacious room, who already had a drunken sway in his gestures, his hands holding a glass of something that looked like champagne, while circled around women's shoulders.

He didn't know what to think, even whether he should think a thing or not. The act –as he realized now—seemed so real, so much that even Gordon had bought it before—

 _Do you think I should go to a hospital-?_

 _Why—who's there in the van?_

The son of a bitch.

"Ugh, I hate long speeches-" He bellowed with a long, sly drawl, "So thanks for coming—another birthday of me—to help me with the booze—" He laughed, as a stir went along the lines that watched him, "I promise I won't kick your ass out this time!" Another loud laugh, as he took a big sip from the glass, "So have fun, and _pleaaase_ —" he shot out another laughter, "try not to harm the house a lot—we've just rebuilt it!"

He laughed with a maniac satire at his own joke, as another stir went over the crowd, murmurs following. People had gotten used to his eccentricities, the way he made fun of burning his house down after kicking his guest out, but the whole mirage only put a scowl above Gordon's brows.

He hadn't burned his manor, Gordon didn't know what exactly happened, but he was damn sure Bruce Wayne didn't burn his house down, because he'd been busy with trying to save Gotham from a terrorist attack.

He heaved a sigh, and started circling the room to find a familiar face, he had a peculiar sense that he would come to him on his own time, when he was ready. The ball room was so crowded, but he saw almost every figureheads of the city wandering in, except the Mayor.

Rupert Elliot wasn't one to deal with that kind of stuff as long as he needed to, and since elections had already passed away, he had no reason to mingle with Wayne's crowd, as it was no secret that Wayne had supported his rival.

Another thing only made sense in retrospect.

He let out another silent sigh, and picked up a glass of drink, as the butler suddenly appeared beside him. "Sir, your presence is acquired in the study," the older man announced toward his ear, and gestured vaguely, "If you may."

Finally. Curtly, he nodded, and followed the butler, but when the other man opened a thick wooden door at the floor above, instead of Bruce Wayne, he was met with the CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

Wayne's butler's closed the door behind him, as Gordon looked at Lucius Fox hard. "You're in, too, huh?"

The Afro-American man gave him a smug smile. "Officially, Commissioner, I don't know what you're talking about."

"So he's still too much chickened?" Gordon asked after giving an overall look at the study. Now, this seemed more like his style. Still decorated with the colonial style like the rest of the house, the study room was based on more functionality, practicality, and simplicity than luxury. The sofas and chairs were comfortable for the long hours of sitting down, the interior washed up with a warm light. There was a library in walnut that went the wall's all length, which had heavy, thick books on a wide spectrum from crime scene inspection to body language.

This was the room where the real Bruce Wayne spent his time.

Fox traveled his eyes around the study with him, then turned to him again. "You must understand, Commissioner, it takes time for Mr. Wayne to adapt to new situations."

Gordon shook his head slightly, while muttering, "I've gathered that."

Fox gave one of those smiles again, reassuring but a bit smug. "So what do you want to talk about me?" he asked.

Fox walked to him, and handed him a USB stick. "This—he wanted me to give you this," he explained, "He recorded it in an abandoned building in the Narrows yesterday. It's about the Unheards. You need to listen it."

Ah. Always business. That seemed more like the man he knew, too. Nodding, Gordon slipped the thumb drive in his pocket. He knew that was the end of the conversation, or usually that was the end of the conversations with Batman, but the man stood before him didn't disappear in the shadows, not like him. Gordon thought—maybe—maybe that was the reason why he had sent another person to do this.

So Gordon asked, with a rough, thick voice, because the words suddenly became too heavy, "How is she? Is she well?"

Fox arched a surprised eyebrow. "Have you seen him chasing that DHS agent on a death wish these days?" he asked rhetorically, and sucked in a small breath, "She's well. Given the circumstances."

Gordon let out one himself too. "Are they—" he halted in his words, because what he tried to ask seemed so much impossible, but he could still remember how Batman reacted to Rachel Dawes' death. He wasn't a bionic man, at the end he was just a man, too, like them… "Does he—does he love her?" he found himself asking.

"Quite a lot, I presume," Fox admitted, giving out another breathy sigh, "I will admit. I don't quite understand it myself, either, but she's come good to him. That much I know."

He couldn't stop himself, the questions followed. "How did he found her?"

Fox looked at him, a slight grimace setting over his jaw, then pointed toward the table in the corner. "If we're gonna do this," he said, walking toward the table, "We might sit down. It's gonna take a while." Gordon followed the older man, and sat down. "It wasn't him. _She_ found him. Five months after she escaped from the safe house, she called him."

Then he started recounting what had happened ten months ago, how they'd come to this point, where the Dark Knight had ended up falling for a con-artist.

Wordlessly, Gordon listened to the story, and when it ended, he looked at the man in front of him. "You must be a good friend to him, Mr. Fox," he said slowly, as the other man starting standing up, and walked to the door.

At his declaration, the CEO turned aside, and gave him one of those smug smirk-smiles. "I suppose, yes, I have. If it wasn't me," he said, with another smile, "none of us would be here now talking _this._ " He opened the door. "Good night, Commissioner, and welcome."

Gordon smiled, as the door closed. It seemed appropriate. It felt he had just come abroad on the something, a different world, a better world.

He stood up, too, and decided to go to home, too. He was going to find it empty, but for the first time after long time, there was a different hope in his heart. In a world Batman fell for a con-artist, everything seemed possible. Perhaps one day Barbara would return, too, and everything would turn back to normal.

He opened the door, and started going out, but the sounds he heard stopped him dead in his tracks, his dreams for a happy ending falling into pieces.

Two gunshots echoed in the massive manor, then another followed—

Then screams.

* * *

She found herself back in front of the bar.

She had no idea how, but somehow her legs must have carried her to it. Lifting her head, she gazed at the liquor looking at her temptingly, her hands tingling.

God, she needed a drink. No, she needed lots of drink. Fuck being sober. What if she failed at something? She could fail at something. She should be allowed to fail at least one thing. She'd been a way too much of a good girl lately.

With a different kind of determination, she walked to it, but before she could open her mouth and ask for a scotch, Fox suddenly appeared next to her, and started dragging her toward the circle of the attention in the room.

God, no, not now. She wasn't ready for it now. "What are you doing?" she hissed at Fox, not bothering with civilities. At least not for Fox. Not now.

"He's waiting for you—" Fox said, without slowing down, "Let's get over it, shall we, Ms. West?"

She sent him a glare, as he stopped outside the circle. Fox cleared his throat, pulling her forward with him as a little gap opened, and he saw Bruce leaning against his _girls_ , laughing, like he didn't have a single care in the world.

"Mr. Wayne," Fox said, walking with toward him, "Do you remember the new detective I mentioned to you before?" he asked, as Bruce turned toward them. Fox twisted toward him, "Detective, Mr. Wayne—" Then turned to Bruce again, "Mr. Wayne, Detective West."

There at least she was Detective West.

Bruce's attention turned to her, too, as if he was really seeing her the first time, and the look he gave her was something she'd never seen him directing at her before. Heated, and darkened, his eyes roamed all over her, as if she was a piece of desert that he could eat up whole, and ask more.

"Ah," he rolled the expression over this tongue silky, like savoring it, then untangled himself off the girls. "Fox-" His attention skipped to the older man for a second, "if I knew you've gotten this good with hiring our staff, I'd have surely dropped by the office more," he said, laughing, and held out his hand. "Detective," he rasped out in a husky whisper.

She took the offered hand in a firm shake. "Mr. Wayne."

His eyes took a leer. "Will you be grilling me, too?" he asked, the innuendo leaking out of his words. "I like to be grilled." The girls next to him giggled. He twisted toward them, "Though, sandwiches are still my favorite."

She tried a smile. "As you're still a board member, sir," she said, "yes, I'm afraid I'll be grilling you—with questions."

He shot out a loud laugh. "Be gentle with me, dec, you're gonna be my first."

"I'll keep it in mind, sir," she said stiffly, and shifted toward Fox to take her leave, but before she could leave, she heard Bruce's voice again.

"I've been always wondering, dec," he called after her, "You guys carry guns with you?"

She wasn't going to be lucky tonight. Suppressing a sigh, and an urge to send him a glare, she turned to Bruce again. "Usually."

"Oh." He breathed out, and leaned toward her, "Can I see it?"

"I don't go around showing off my gun to people, Mr. Wayne," she bit off through clenched teeth.

"Come on, dec," he drawled, "If you show me yours, I'll show you _mine._ " Then he winked at her. He actually winked at her.

Cast off stone, she stood there, staring at him, her brain suddenly not functioning, no retorts coming to her tongue. Her hands balled into fists. He laughed even more, as one of the girls, the brunette, came closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck from his left side, and _licked_ the side of his neck. She saw the tip of the tongue that poked out of the woman's mouth, and it flickered under his ear, where usually made Bruce hiss through his nose sharp.

The noise he made this time wasn't a sharp hiss, but he pulled her closer to him, as the woman sucked his earlobe slightly before she turned her attention to his ear, "Show _me_ your gun, Brucie."

 _She_ let out a silent hiss of breath, and turned aside and walked away. Thank god for all the things scared and good, he didn't stop her this time. Otherwise, she didn't know what she might do. _Suck it up, suck it up, suck it up,_ she chanted herself over and over, she wasn't jealous, it was nothing. _They_ were nothing.

However, her peep talk didn't work out well, she realized, as she found herself yet again in front of the bar.

The bottles of scotch stared at her again, almost smirking in her mind. She closed her eyes, evened out a breath. No—no—not because of _him_! She wasn't going to relapse because a damn woman sucked his earlobe! She was going to have at least that much of dignity. If she started drinking again, it was going to be because of _her_ issues, not because of his shenanigans.

She turned away from the bar, and saw Gordon wandering in the ballroom. Quickly she walked toward the other side of the room, the last thing she needed now was a rather nosy Commissioner see her. She didn't look like Cameron, but she looked damn close.

Walking away, at the opposite corner, she saw Jason talking again with the blonde doctor. A catty sneer dropped off her mouth as she watched them from far, something inside her scratching, clawing to get out. She knew what it was. She'd repressed it a way too long, and it was laughing at her now, cracking up with laughter. She tsked another hiss, but this time she wasn't even sure to whom.

She decided it was enough shit for her tonight. God, she was never going to set up a foot in this damn ballroom again. Making her way through the crowd, she padded toward to the door, then suddenly a callous hand caught her at her wrist and pulled her toward—the dance floor.

With a deft move, she twisted aside, her body already in defense position, but the voice that whispered in her ear stopped her. "Easy," Bruce said, twirling her to his arm when they arrived the dance floor.

She looked at him with widened eyes. "What _the hell_ are you doing?" she hissed, as he grabbed her waist, taking her hand with the other, "I just saw Gordon walking around."

"Alfred took him to the study," he said immediately, coming closer toward her in the dance, "Fox will give him the record we found last night."

She closed her eyes. "And—I repeat," she asked, craning her neck at him, "What are you doing?"

"The thing I've wanted to do since I stepped into this room," he answered, pulling back, a true playboy smile with boyish charms full at his lips, "I'm dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room." She frowned, straightening in his embrace, her eyes darting around to check her surrounding, "Now, you just keep frowning like this," Bruce drawled with the same smile, "I'll lead."

"This's ridiculous," she said, firing another breath, "You can't dance with me."

"Why not?" he asked back, "There is no one here knows both of us right now. No harm done."

"No harm done?" she scoffed back, "Tell that to the leech over there." She slighted pointed to left side with her head, where the brunette stood watching them. She smiled at him wickedly. "It looks like you won't see her _gun_ tonight, Mr. Wayne."

"I wasn't planning to," he encountered, the boyish charms falling for a minute off his expression, his grimace peeking behind.

"You weren't?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at him, "You told me you might need to take them to bed sometimes." She stared at him. "Or were you just scaring me off?"

His eyes stared at her back, then he shook his head. "Jealousy isn't your style, Valerie," he said slowly, twirling them toward a secluded area of the dance floor, "Why don't you tell me what's wrong?"

She ran her eyes away, "Nothing." Another frown quickly appeared as he approached closer to the corner of the room. Then she understood what he was doing. He was driving them away from the coward, where a serving staircase was hidden behind the door. The next second, she heard a click, then he pulled them in the staircase hall, and to left, he opened the closet under the staircase, and pushed her inside.

Turning aside, he closed the door inside. She looked at the small space, full of with brooms, mats, vacuum cleaner, and detergents. "Bruce, darling," she called him slyly, "Are you going to show _me_ your gun?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Valerie, we're not here for sex," he said, "I want you to tell me what's wrong."

She turned her eyes again, and shrugged. "It's-" she halted, "Jason. He asked Doctor Quinzel to a dinner," she lied.

"What?"

"Yeah, I saw them talking, _laughing_ —" she spat the word, "He said he wanted to know more about the Joker."

He nodded curtly. "I'll talk to him," he said, then paused, looking at her eyes, his look once again probing, searching. "But it can't bother you this much." He took a step closer, his eyes suddenly softening, much like his voice, "Valerie, baby, you can talk to me." He came even closer. "What's wrong?"

And she snapped, she really did. "Everything!" she cried out, "Everything is wrong! Look around, Bruce, we're in a fucking utility closet to have a heart-to-heart. Does it sound to you _right?_ Normal people fuck in the closets, don't talk." She shook her head, with frustration, words pouring out of her like a dam broken, and she couldn't stop the flood following, "You've turned me to yourself. I've become too much good. I've had almost another panic attack tonight just because I defended old money to Derrick Malkin! I defended old money!" she screamed with a laugh, "I—I hate rich—I—I-" She let out a deep breath, suddenly the fire inside her squelching, and she looked at him, for an answer, because he must have, he should have, because she sure didn't have a damn one, "I don't know what's happening to me." Tears threatened to break over, and she shook her head.

Bruce held her chin gently and turned her toward him. "You've had a panic attack?" he asked, "another one?"

Oh, fuck. "I—" she mumbled, sinking on one of a detergent boxes, and held her head between her heads. "I—I've had episodes," she confessed.

"Before the accident?" he asked to confirm, crouching between her knees.

Her head still bowed, she nodded. "It started when I first went to the exam. I flunked because an attack hit me. I ushered out, and threw out in a waste bin." She brought her hands up, and wiped the tears that slipped away from her eyes, swallowing down a sob. "Then here today—the second one. The third one." She heaved out a sob-sigh, "I'm a mess."

"No, you're not," Bruce told her, his voice soft but there was no pity inside. She lifted her head, and looked at him. "Valerie, you're not a mess," he continued with the same voice, "You're just—changing." He paused. "And it's okay. You can't—hinder it."

She shook her head, and shot at him an accusing look. "You do—you're still the same."

"Am I?" he asked, laughing back, and his hand raised to her cheek. The callous fingers caressed her skin. "Valerie, I just called you _baby_. If that isn't a change, I don't know what change is."

She—giggled, she giggled like a school girl, leaning into his touch. He pushed himself up toward her, and caught her lips. She quickly wound her arms around his neck, as he pulled her to the floor on her knees.

The kiss deepened, as his tongued gained access into her mouth. Well, it looked like they were going to have closet sex, after all, because the next he drew her closer, reaching out to the backside of the dress and tore the zip open with one single movement.

A tremble coursed over her body in response. She felt his smirk over her lips, then he tore them off, and they found her ear. "Do you wanna hear another change?" He breathed out just over her skin, "I imagined whole night doing this." His hands slid the dress off her, as he brushed his lips over her neckline. She drew her head back to give him a better access, her hands helping him in his mission to undress her.

"You were looking very beautiful in it, baby," he continued, unclasping her bra, "but I like you better when you're naked. In fact, I like you best when you're naked."

She took a deep breath before he took her lips a deep kiss. The rest was a Bruce Wayne she had never seen before, even in the backseat.

All things considered, perhaps, changing wasn't that bad. In fact, she was beginning to like it quite a _lot,_ so much that Bruce had to silence her screams with a searing kiss while she was coming.

* * *

They dressed each other later with the clumsiness of teenagers and with the awkwardness of new love. Then dressed once again impeccable in his suit, albeit the undone bowtie, despite what kind of change he had passed through, Bruce proved himself once again being one of a kind.

He pulled to his feet, and drew her up too, and asked, "You talked to Derrick Malkin tonight?"

She let out a deep sigh, taking her panties from the floor, and slid them up under her dress. "Seriously? We've just had our _first_ moment," she waved her hand around the cluttered closet, "And the first thing you ask me if I talked to Derrick Malkin—?" She shook her head, "Bruce, darling, your pillow talk manners still suck."

His lips pursed in a slight grimace. "I haven't changed that much," he paused, "Neither did you, for that matter," he continued, "You're still a hurricane. _Valerie Hurricane._ "

"Now, you're flattering me," she shot back with a smirk.

"I'm being a good boyfriend," he deadpanned.

She laughed out. He walked to the door, and opened it. He checked out the hall first, then pulled her out too. "But, seriously, what's Derrick Malkin doing at my birthday party?"

"Are you asking _me?"_ she asked, "It's your goddamn party."

He shrugged, as they walked in a corridor that would get them the main staircase in the hall, so that they would parted their ways in stealth. "Fox and my secretary prepared the invited list, and Alfred looked over it," he answered, and muttered under his breath, "I've got _no_ idea who's invited at my birthday party."

She shook her head at him, laughing. "That's only because you've had no interest for your own birthday, darling."

His eyes skipped at her, a little grin appeared over his lips. "Well, this one didn't turn out that bad."

She grinned back. "No, it didn't."

 _All's well that ends well_ , she told herself. All was well. She could have panic attacks along the way, and Bruce could always be a breadth away from getting into trouble, and they could be this close to getting caught, but still all was well; they were well, and everything was going to be okay.

Bruce opened the door for her, checking out first, and she stepped out. Bruce followed her out. They gave each other a last smile before moving to opposite directions.

With a smile, she turned, and started walking toward the staircase, calling it a night.

Before she put her foot at the first step, a gunshot echoed in the hall, shaking the staircase. Another followed immediately, as she took a cover over the railings, cursing herself for leaving her gun at the hotel. There was a brief pause, strained and dark, then the third boomed across the walls.

When she heard following screams, she knew they would have never, never been that lucky.

Standing up, she threw her shoes off, and started running toward the screams.

* * *

 _If any of you wondered what Bruce was actually drinking during his welcoming speech it was ginger ale. Comic-canonly Bruce drinks that in parties._


	13. Part IV-I

**Part IV. I – "He has returned"**

* * *

 _24 Years Ago, Gotham City_

The night was hushed, silence and fear ruling the dark corners. At the dead-end alley that was going to be called as Crime Alley in the following years, the young Bruce Wayne sat beside his dead parents, crying silently, and understanding the first time in his short life that the world wasn't a good place.

Across where the Crime Alley ended at the bottom of the two harsh angled streets of the Bowery, another dead-end alley stood, and another little boy sat beside his dead parents. The seven and a half years old child, however, already knew the world wasn't a good place.

Blood on the red coat… The red coat…his sister's birthday present… His father had bought it after his last job. He'd come with a cake, and a comic book, and his sister's coat…red on red. The boy lifted his head and looked at the police officer who was still holding his gun high in the air. From where he stood, at the other side of the barrel, the muzzle looked like a dark tunnel, with no lights at the end.

The boy wasn't scared. He stared at the older man—his shaking hand…his sweated forehead, and his eyes… The man turned and ran away. The boy watched his retreating back, and looked at his family…his mother, father, sister…

Red on red.

Like Bruce Wayne did, the boy waited, too.

In the following years, no one dubbed the dead-end alley with something, no one cared for the seven and a half years old boy whose criminal parents found dead in the night. They got what they deserved, they said. You reap what you sow.

The boy, though, waited.

* * *

 _October, 2009_

Before he reached back to the ballroom, Bruce had already started categorizing the sounds he'd heard, but something was amiss. The loud bangs sounded close to gunshot, but they weren't —they weren't fast enough for a semi-automatic firearm round, but too loud for a pistol fire or a rifle, and the smell—there was no tell-tale smell of the powder in the air.

Besides, he noticed, alerting his ears more, the sounds weren't even coming _inside_ the house. His eyes snapped toward at the floor length windows, just at the moment a sudden warm red light exploded in the ballroom—

"Here again—" a woman cried out with excitement, clapping her hands in front of her, close to her chest, "I so love fireworks!"

Fireworks?

Bruce looked at outside blankly, as another firework went off with a loud bang, countless red lights dancing with stars, then another one—green joined their dance. Fireworks… he didn't remember Alfred talking about fireworks…though, he supposed it was common enough.

Bruce swept his eyes around the room quickly, still trying to find something. Something was still amiss. He was still feeling the same strain in the air whenever he charged at an unknown foe, the same kind of danger that make every nerve in the body stood up with basic fighting instincts.

His eyes looked for Valerie in the crowd, but he couldn't spot her anywhere. He turned aside, to walk out of the ballroom to find her, but before he could even reach the door, the danger he'd waited finally hit the shores.

Suddenly the dance of the firelights obscured, as a dark, massive black flag dropped over the windows, a big fiery red Circle-A flashing at them in the heart of it.

Below was written _; Our voice will be heard._

The Unheards.

The Unheards had busted his damn birthday party.

Screams filled the ballroom, as his guests started running to the doors, even there was no sight of violence yet. Bruce tried to stop them, they were acting like sheep following one over a cliff, without any thought what exactly they were doing—but it was no use. Their worst fears had come back with all force, the remnants of the Reign of Chaos was still too fresh in the memories for any logical consideration.

In the middle of the panicked crowd, Bruce finally saw a familiar face. This time he didn't hesitate. He approached the Commissioner with quick but purposeful steps. "What's happening?" Gordon asked, looking at him straight in the eyes.

Bruce shook his head, and answered truthfully. "I don't know. They must've passed the guards, or infiltrated the party earlier." Yet another failure for his so-called security. Some heads would roll again tomorrow morning. This had made it twice, twice a party of his got busted. He looked around, "Try to get people away from the doors," he said, walking away, "We don't know what's happening. It might be a trap to get people out in the open."

Gordon nodded. "I already asked for reinforcements."

Bruce nodded, opening the door for the main hall.

The main hall was—worse. They were smoke bombs everywhere, the ghostly red gas filling the air. As far as he could tell, it wasn't poisonous, he only smelt the usual gas one could smell in the stadiums, but the memories of Fear Attack was as fresh as the Reign of the Chaos in the crowd's mind. They became even more panicked with the red fog, stepping on each other to get themselves out of the house.

In the hall, he spotted a couple of figures with Guy Fawkes masks painting Circle-A over his walls, with no attention to the turmoil around them.

—and he finally saw Valerie.

She grabbed one of the "artists" at the back of his neck, and quickly incapacitated him. She kicked his shin –Bruce saw with bare foot—dropped him on the floor, and crouched over him, firmly pressing his right arm on his back. Over the screams of the panic in the room, Bruce heard the young man's scream of pain. His friend, stopping painting, assaulted her, but before he could even lay a finger at her, she turned aside, still holding the down man's arm, and swept the other man's feet off the ground.

Gordon tore his eyes away from the scene, and looked at him. "Who is she?"

Despite the situation, a faint smile pulled out his lips. "She's my—PI."

* * *

All things considered, Valerie decided an hour later in the parlor, it wasn't that bad. It could be surely worse. She looked at the young men sitting in front of them, their heads bowed, but she could still see the anger inside their eyes, anger and repulsiveness, for them.

For a moment, she felt the same thing she had felt earlier in the day, her chest constringing. Though, this time it wasn't an attack, but another realization. Years ago, she had used to stand at the other side of the room, her eyes cast down to hide the anger and repulsiveness in them. She'd been drawing Circle-A over Cathleen's walls, signing "Anarchy in the UK". Now, she was the one who had caught them.

Her eyes swept over them, and found Bruce, trying to find the peace he always brought to her. It wasn't the solution, the anger for the life itself had never solved anything, at the end that was why Jason had lost his purpose, she guessed—they wouldn't change the world, they could only live it.

Her eyes drew to Bruce again. He can—she thought then, and understood she believed it, she believed it with all of her heart, Bruce Wayne could change the world. She'd never thought she'd have really cared, but she knew she did, too, and he had seen that even before she had herself.

 _Believe whatever you want, I know why I'm here_ , she recalled her words to Ronnie in Belfast. She knew now what they would say after _Valerie West_ ; "Ah, she can be a bitch sometimes, but when it matters you can count on her."

A brief smile passed over her lips, as her eyes found Bruce again, as he lounged over his sofa in his full-playboy billionaire poise, looking, of all things, _bored._ A laughter threatened to break over, and she suppressed it at the last moment. She must be losing it, she really must be losing it, because suddenly the only thing she wanted to do was laugh, then drag Bruce back to the closet.

Then she noticed different eyes on her. She half twisted her neck aside, and caught Gordon giving her a side look.

Damn.

The Commissioner had been giving her those looks since they were in the parlor with their two guests, and there was nothing to do about that now. She wasn't preoccupied, though, not much. The Commissioner already knew about Batman, and knowing her—well, it couldn't be worse than that. Bruce trusted him, and she trusted that.

There was a murmur from the older of the duo that had the younger man snap his head up, looking at his companion with fierce eyes, " _You_ fucked it up, Bastard," he hissed.

Oh. She recognized them at the first syllable; the group of Batman's CI, the young men had led them to the voice from the radio. Suddenly the reason why Bruce had brought the duo in the parlor instead of giving them to Gordon made more sense.

He was up to something; sprawled over the sofa without any care, Bruce Wayne had set up his game.

Valerie looked at the boys again. Bubble Gum seemed like he was just out of his teens, whereas Bastard looked like he was in mid-twenties. Though, they both looked older, but that was another thing with street kids, they always looked older. Dan opened his mouth to reply, but Derrick Malkin beat him to it, "Shut your trap," he hissed both guy.

God, they would make the most extraordinary assemble, ever. Derrick Malkin had kinda invited himself into their little party. He had seen Gordon taking the duo to the parlor, and insisted to come along, threating the Commissioner himself with a law suit if he didn't let him.

"Commissioner," he turned to Gordon, "What these two fool are waiting here?" he asked, "Take them in the custody, you can't keep them here."

Gordon opened his mouth, but Bruce laughed before he could say a word, "Gee, Malkin, you're so upright. Sit down," he waved his hand around, and took a sip from his glass, "Have a drink. I asked Commissioner to bring them here."

Malkin looked at him hard, firmly standing where he stood, "Why?"

"Because it looks like they want to say something—" he answered with his drawl, waving his hand again, a carefully planned careless gesture, his expression was a statement of existential boredom, " _Our voice will be heard—"_ he drawled out, and put his glass down on the coffee table, and leaned forward, "Okay, guys, so let us hear it."

The door opened, and a brown haired middle-aged man walked over Alfred, before the older man announced his presence. She recognized the new incomer at the first glance. Ah. Just she had thought things wouldn't get any—interesting. "Yes, kids," the Mayor Elliot told with a thick baritone tone, "do tell. What's that you want us to hear?"

Gordon stood up, looking at the Mayor. "Sir," he greeted the man, shock coloring his words, "What are you doing here?"

The Mayor's eyes skipped to him only for a second, before they returned to the Unheards' with their full attention. "My aide just told me the news. I wanted to come and see, and _hear_."

The duo looked at each other, before Bubble Gum hissed, "You've taken everything, and left so little to us!" he said, and Valerie recognized the words from the record as soon as he spoke. He tried to continue, but Malkin walked closer to them, and interrupted, "Hush. Don't answer anything," he rasped.

The Mayor turned to him, and then recognition lit his eyes. "You?" he hissed, "What the hell are you doing here, Malkin?"

Bowing her head, Valerie smiled. She could only guess what kind of troubles Malkin was causing for the Mayor for the man recognized him so quick. "I was at the party," Malkin answered stiffly, "I'll represent them."

"You were at the party?" Mayor Elliot asked, not taking what Malkin had said the last in consideration, then laughed, "Hah, the good doctor never gives up, huh?" He shook his head, "Tell her to do whatever she wants," he said, as his voice lost the fake laughter in it, "It won't work. I'll get the Clown in that room, Malkin, and will sting the syringe with my own hands."

Malkin didn't come to the provocation, only stood there without saying any word. Her eyes skid to Bruce, and the look she saw over his face was the same, too; the same darkness shadowing his features. "The clown's gonna answer to the Justice for the things he'd done," the Mayor intoned darkly.

Without answering him, Malkin turned to Bruce swiftly. "Mr. Wayne, are you going to press charges?"

Bruce's demeanor shifted back to the playful persona before anyone could sense the change in him. "For what—? Ruining my already boring birthday party?" he answered with a long drawl. The heads in the room stared at him, as Malkin narrowed his eyes, "Nah—let them go."

"Mr. Wayne—" the Mayor turned to Bruce, but standing up, Bruce interrupted him rudely.

"Saved it, Rupert," there was no stressing at his usage of the first name, in fact he had said it with the same drawl, but the results were the same; even the Mayor couldn't fuck with the Prince of Gotham, "The last thing I need is hearing a lecture from my PR for getting two street kids into the jail." He started walking to the door, "I don't know you, but it's _bedtime_ for me now…" He stopped, "Speaking of which," he turned to Alfred, "Alfred, where are my girls?"

"They left an hour ago, sir," Alfred answered coolly.

Bruce sighed, as Valerie almost rolled her eyes. He turned to the boys. "You know, kids," he told them, "I should get you arrested just for that. I hate sleeping alone." He stopped again, and turned toward her, as if he just remembered he had another female in the room, "Hey, detective, wanna keep me in company?" he asked, with a sly smile.

Once again, she looked at him dumbfounded. She really should get better with dealing with this side of him, she realized, as she understood that was how things were going to be with him in public. "I—I need to return home, sir," she forced out between strained lips, "Thanks for the offer."

He shrugged, opening the door. "Your loss." He passed the door, "Alfred, show them out."

Then he kicked all of them out.

Malkin didn't make him repeat his words twice. He took the boys, and left without another word, as Gordon left with Fox. Valerie stayed behind, walking slowly behind them. She'd come with a taxi, and Rory and Jason must be in the study, and she needed to get back there, too.

Fox stopped at the last step of the entrance. "Detective, do you want a lift?"

With him and Gordon, hell no. "I called a taxi," she said diplomatically, "thank you."

They nodded, and bid them goodnight, as Derrick Malkin only gave her a stiff half-nod, before he stuffed the boys in his car, and drove away. Well, so much for being a gentleman.

She took the steps back up quickly, and knocked the door. Alfred opened it. She looked around. "Where is he?"

"In the cave, miss."

She let out a sigh. The damn man. He couldn't even wait for five minutes. She flew over the stairs, and went down the cave, too. When she stepped a foot inside, she found Bruce preparing to go out.

"Bruce Wayne!" she bellowed out, "What the hell are you doing?"

He took his tool belt, and wrapped it around his waist. At least he'd wore normal clothes, not the Suit, she noticed at the next moment. "Someone sent them here tonight," Bruce answered, taking the balaclava, " _Spread the word,_ " he intoned from the record, "and they're doing it. One single act, and tomorrow everyone will talk about them."

She grimaced. "They didn't hurt anyone."

"Not yet—" he said, and lifted his head, wearing his leather jacket, "Not yet. Valerie, these guys—today, I don't believe they're bad kids, but they're open to manipulations. You saw how he repeated the words from the record. Remember what else the record was talking. They only used fireworks and smoke bombs this time, but when they'll switch to firearms and gas bombs?" He paused, "I need to find who put them up into this."

She nodded. "This Guy—" she said, "You think it was Guy."

His eyes stared at hers. "And it was him, he'd want to see them again."

She laughed. "That's why you sent them away," she remarked, sitting at a chair in front of the stations, "So you can see with who they would meet afterward."

He nodded, climbing over his anonymous bike, "Wait for me," he rasped, before the motor roared into the life, and Bruce drove away in the dark.

* * *

 _Eight hours ago_

He looked older, and different from the first time he had seen him. The last time Boy had seen him the man was in his blue uniform, his hands shaking, pointing his gun at him.

Now, he was older, many years had passed from that night in the dead-end alley. "I didn't mean it—" the retired officer whimpered out. He was sixty-seven years old, had two daughters, and one grandson. His wife had passed ten years ago, because of cancer. One of his daughters was a teacher, married to a doctor, but the father of her child wasn't the doctor. Boy would have found the father, but he saw no purpose. His other daughter was a lawyer, and she was a lesbian, but she wasn't going to come out in the open, perhaps never. His father knew none of those things, and it was okay. His daughters didn't know a thing about their father, either; everyone had secrets. Some deadlier than others.

"It was a mistake," he said, begging for his life, as he took steps backwards, away from him, and the barrel looking at him, "We didn't notice, we didn't know. We didn't understand." He finally broke down, his back hit the wall behind him, it was a dead-end alley, Boy had learned years ago. "It was a mistake," the older man repeated brokenly.

Boy looked at the old man, and nodded. "Yes," he agreed, bringing his gun with silencer upper, and fired once, "You should have killed the boy, too."

The Beretta 98 with silencer made almost no voice in the silence of the night, as blood painted his shirt red when he hit him in his abdomen. Boy fired again. One for his father, two for his mother, and three—

Boy looked at the man, as he dropped on his knees—

Boy looked at red…red on white was better than red on red.

He fired the last time, directly for the head.

The retired officer completely dropped over the ground. Boy walked to him, and crouched over his dead boy. Another dead body at the dead-end alley, something he had waited for years. He pulled out the list his current contractor had supplied, and looked at the name. Five names… Five names Control had hid from him from the beginning.

He wasn't surprised, trusting Control had been his own mistake, something he had paid for. No more. Her time would come, too. Soon. He touched the blood over the body with his fingertip, and crossed over the first name in his list.

* * *

His head hidden with the helmet, Bruce drove on the course of the bugs he'd planted on Bubble Gum and Dan before in the parlor. "Take the next left," Valerie walked him through, "There was a patrol car ahead. They're at 82nd. You can cross them over from 85th."

Bruce took the left turn at the intersection, listening to her instructions. "They stopped," she said after a second, "82nd, 12," she supplied, as Bruce started counting the door numbers.

He stopped across of the street, taking a cover that had a clear sight of the apartment 12 from the opposite building's fire escape. He adjusted his bino at their living room's window, and watched as duo entered the house, laughing. "Man," the younger —Bubble Gum— drawled out, throwing himself over the couch, "I can't believe they left us."

"Yeah—" the other answered, "Wayne must've lost his mind. Spook," he added for the last, lifting his legs over their coffee table, the only furniture in the living room Bruce could see from his vantage point, aside the couch.

"Valerie," Bruce called in, "talk to me."

"Daniel Forssmann a.k.a _Bastard_ ," Valerie quickly obeyed, supplying him about his targets, "Born in the system from a prostitute, her mother left him there at the birth," she said, her voice slightly taking a catch. She paused for a second before she continued, and Bruce dutifully waited for her.

"He grew up in the same orphanage with Richard Mille a.k.a. Bubble Gum," she restarted again, her voice now cool, "Their orphanage is a private foster care in Gotham, founded by Gotham United Assc. Daniel left it after he turned to seventeen, and Richard escaped along with him." There was another brief pause, and he heard the hitting keys, "They have juvenile records, the usual stuff; breaking and entering, pickpocketing, car hijacking—" A pause, hitting keys, "They look like working as hired muscles for a catering company that also makes gardeening." She let out a humming sound, "The same one Alfred also worked for your birthday."

Well, that would explain how they infiltrated the Manor. He made a quick note to search for the company, and all the staff Alfred had hired to find other masked figures. There must be a pattern. His eyes swept between them, and focused on the house itself. The house—it was a way too good for the street kids who only worked when it suited their interests. "Valerie, the house?" he demanded.

"In a moment," she said, hitting the keys, "Here. Registered to Donna Hansen," she explained, "An old lady, who spends the biggest part of the year with his daughter in New York." She laughed. "They've crashed into it."

Well, that also would explain. Bubble Gum stood up and brought two beer, and offered one to his friend. He settled back to couch, as they opened the bottles. "Can you believe it?" Bubble Gum suddenly said, a grin spreading over his face, "He's really returned."

Dan nodded, too, with less morale. "Yeah." He took a sip from his beer in thoughts.

But Bubble Gum didn't care his lack of enthusiasm. "I mean, fuck it, after all these years, man… I was a kiddo the last time I saw him."

Dan laughed. "You're still a kid, Bubble."

"You _are_ a kid, Bastard," Bubble Gum shot back with ire, "I'm nineteen." Dan laughed again, this time without saying anything. Bubble Gum turned to the window, and looked at outside. "Things will be different now," he said then, "you'll see. Boy'll look for us—" he said, another smile appearing over his face, "like he always did."

Then Bruce understood. He jumped from the fire escape, and climbed over the bike. "Valerie," he called in, "Find me that Boy. He's their childhood friend that they mentioned to Bottlecup." He turned the motor on, "This's about him."

* * *

 _Eight hours ago_

Boy found them just exactly how he had left them; fighting. "You dolt, you dolt," Bastard angrily grumbled, "You almost fuck it up."

Bubble Gum opened his mouth for his same retort, he was sure, but before he could say anything two men approached them from behind. "Guys, going somewhere?" the bulking man asked. Boy classified him being one of former lackey of Gambol, a street gangster no one really cared. During the last month he had studied Gotham carefully, and what he saw in the realms of gangsters infinitely displeased him. Little men only cared for their little profits.

He walked toward the man, without any sound. They deserved none. The man started saying something but he reached out his arm and his hand found his neck. He squeezed his windpipe, until he became sure he couldn't talk again, and knocked the guy out.

His company ran away without any second thought. That was good with gangsters. When there was no loyalty, then there was no reason to stay and fight back.

"What—what the hell—" Bubble Gum sputtered.

Boy smiled a little smile. "Bubble—Bastard," he greeted them, "The years haven't changed you."

They recognized his voice, he knew. They might be stranger the way he looked now, but his voice, he could never forget his voice. "Oi! Boy!" Bubble Gum exclaimed, "Is that you? You've returned?"

"Yes, Bubble, it is me," he said, his smile growing a fraction wider, something he hadn't done for years, "And yes, I have returned."

* * *

Across the Palisades, in his condo, Floyd Lawton watched the tape in which Bruce Wayne rescued the woman he had been looking for the last weeks over and over, looking for a clue, for a hint, for something—anything. She was the key to find the Batman, Lawton had become sure of it, and she was gone now.

But her life—the impacts of her life was still here, and he only looked closer, deeper, shred every layer of her mystery until she became completely bare.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Lawton turned aside, and looked at it. There was only one person who knew where he slept at nights, and that person would know better than knock his door at the midnight.

He walked to the door, his hand pulling out his gun, and peered through the peep-hole—to see Mercy standing over the other side, with an expression over her face that was foreign. If it was another person, Lawton would call it—being scared.

He opened the door, and stood over the threshold. "Mercy-."

She passed him, and walked in his condo. He opened his mouth, but she turned to him, and threw a dossier at his coffee table. "Eight hours ago, a retired police officer was killed."

He looked at her. "And?"

She pointed at the dossier with her head. "Look at the fucking photos, Floyd," she shouted.

He arched an eyebrow, but took the dossier. He opened the folder, and suddenly everything became clear. His eye—the glassy eye—twitched. He wanted to break something, wanted to trash the whole condo, he wanted to— "See the shots?" Mercy asked, "Two in the abdomen, one directly at the head. It's him." She paused to let out a sharp, long breath, and snapped, "You _missed_ it."

On their own accounts, his legs moved forward, as his hands dropped the folder, and instead caught her neck. He drove her back against the door. "He—he took your eye—" Mercy taunted through her strained throat, looking directly at his eyes, "But you couldn't kill him."

Her neck was so thin, so delicate. He could twist it like a leaf, snapped it like a twig, he could—He breathed out evenly, and pulled back. Killing her…it would be very unprofessional.

"Did you call in Control?" he questioned, his voice devoid of any accusation. The protocol stated that she should report first to her superior, but somehow he believed for this instance, Mercy had gone bylines.

And like he had surmised, there was no hesitation in her answer. "Yes."

He looked at her, and slowly smiled. "And what did she say?"

"She said she's coming promptly," Mercy answered coolly, "Do you know what that means?"

Oh, yes, yes, he did. He laughed, a small, perhaps even a bitter sound. "Do not despair, Mercy," he said, sitting in his armchair, "We're all her children. We're what she's made us."

A flicker of something passed over her features, and she turned away. "He shouldn't have returned," he then heard her mutter looking at Gotham.

* * *

 _The updating schedule is the same. Will update after five reviews. Until then._


	14. Part IV-II

**Part IV. II – "The player on the other side"***

* * *

As Bruce had predicted, the next day everyone was talking about the Unheards. It was a slow, sunny Sunday, the late October sun didn't warm the chill, but at least gave a touch of brightness to the gloom in the sky.

In the study, Valerie read the papers, sipping through her tea, as Bruce searched for the "Clean Cut Gardening Services", the company that was responsible for the general maintenance of the manor's vast grounds. There must be a pattern, but so far, things only looked like a coincidence. But Valerie knew in these cases there was seldom any coincidence.

As her eyebrows clenched, she looked at the headlines— _A New Menace?_

 _Last night, in the Palisades a new threat to our society has emerged?_ Valerie read the article signed by Russell Baker, the head columnist of the Gotham Times. _The night had started slow, too slow for a party of the eccentric billionaire but things slowly accelerated,_ he continued, _as_ _a group called themselves the Unheards showed up in a unique fashion._

She quickly skipped over the article, and got to the bottom. _But who are they? What are they? What's that they're accusing us? Is Mayor Elliot right? Are we not safe yet? When this will end?_

Valerie threw the newspaper at the table. When this would end—no one would know for sure, but she knew the solution wasn't there with them, but with the man sitting beside her, who was forsaking his own life to save others'.

And despite everything, Valerie knew she wouldn't want him in any other way. She smiled, as the door opened, and Rory walked in. She checked her watch. Just right on the time.

She stood up. In the morning, while Bruce looked for the gardening company, she'd searched Bubble Gum and Bastard's orphanage to find out more about this Boy. She couldn't find anything special, as a fire in the building had destroyed archives ten years ago, and she didn't have a name, either. Some old style detective business was in order. She then called Rory, and asked him to assist her on her first official investigation.

"Got the address?" she asked, walking to the younger man.

Rory nodded. "Yes, he lives at the outskirts of Richmond."

Stanley Johnson was a man in his seventies, seventy-four, exactly, who was a vet from the Korean War with a bad leg. He worked in the orphanage forty years before he'd retired and left for the country, and Valerie had surmised if there was someone who would know everything about the foster care home, it should be its janitor.

She turned to Bruce. "Be careful," he said, lifting his head from the computer's screen, "if you sense anything out of place, abort immediately, and call in," he instructed, "Don't push him too far."

She held back the sigh at her tongue. This wasn't the first time she processed the first approach to a possible source, but Bruce Wayne is Bruce Wayne, so she only nodded, but as soon as she left the room, she rumbled, roughing her voice to mimic his tone, " _Don't push him too far."_ She scoffed, "Like I don't know how to approach to a source."

Rory gave her a side look, as they climbed down the staircase to the main hall. Her eyes swept over the Circle-As over the walls, black on the pearl satin finishing, and she shook her head. "This's so weird," she muttered.

Rory shrugged. "He worries for you."

"No—Not that. This—" She waved her hands around, vaguely gesturing the walls.

Rory gave out a small sigh, the same kind she often felt in her insides, too. "Yeah."

She shook her head again, opening the door, "Let's go."

She sat at the driver seat, as Rory took the passenger side. "He worked for the orphanage for forty years—" he said, a wonder in his tone, "Can you imagine it? Working in the same place for forty years…"

She laughed, shifting the car into gear, "Darling, I can't _even_ imagine being forty, let alone working forty years." Hell, she couldn't even imagine being _thirty_ , and now she was galloping toward thirty-one. She was getting old. She was _settling down._

Her lips tightened. She'd become quite a stereotype. The next she'd start wondering about when Bruce would show up with a ring—She gave herself a vicious head-shake, and focused on the road. She hadn't changed _that_ much, thank you very much.

The drive took almost an hour, but it passed a relatively easy silence, until a faded green old farmhouse loomed over the windshield in the waste lands of the outskirts of Richmond. Funny not even an hour passed, but it looked like they'd gone forty years back in time.

The old house was a stereotype, too, from the soiled white framed windows to the neglected front porch with the rocking chair, on which an old man was swinging back and forth with a slow rhythm. She parked in front of the house, and got out. They slowly walked toward it, and climbed up to the porch, the wooden floor squeaking under their feet with each step. The man, however, his eyes still closed, kept rocking in the chair.

"Mr. Johnson," she called when they stood in front of him, "Sir—" she glided a look to Rory, and turned toward the old man again—but suddenly his eyes opened, and two pale misted blue irises looked at her straight.

"Who are you?" the old man asked with a rough, low hiss, his cataract eyes focused above them. "What do you want?"

Valerie pulled herself together, and answered without missing a beat, "I'm Valerie West, private detective, and this's my assistant Tim Drake," she introduced themselves, holding her card out toward the old man, "We're here on the behalf of our client, who looks for her child." She paused for a second, as the man took her card with a shaking, withered purple veined hand. "We've got reasons to believe that he grew up in the orphanage that you used to work," she explained further.

As the man placed the card on his knee, understanding slowly lit in his misted blue eyes. "I see—" he muttered.

"We don't have a name but we know he was friends with Richard Mille and Daniel Forssmann—"

"No-" the old man creaked, interrupting her, "How they're called? Forty years I worked there, too many children—too much to keep the tabs, detective," he continued, "I started after I got from Korea," he said, slowly bending to hold his shortened leg, "Left a piece of me there with the little motherfuckers," he gave a crooked, missing teeth smile, a touch of proud pitching his voice an octave louder, "The Lieutenant of our platoon came personally to see me in the field hospital, gave me my medal—" The withered hand pointed inside his house, then his face suddenly lost the nostalgia, "after that, I was the Janitor Short Leg."

Valerie decided to ignore the bitterness of the words. There was nothing more self-pitying people hate to see than the pity in other people's eyes, so she kept her tone businesslike, "I think they were used to be called—Bubble Gum and uh—Bastard."

Recognition lit in his old eyes again, this time accompanying a smile, "Ah, Bubble and Bastard—" he creaked, "Trouble makers, I tell ya." She wasn't surprised, of course. She gave out a moderate smile. The old man continued, "The three musketeers, they called themselves."

 _Bingo!_ She exchanged a look with Rory. "The three musketeers?" she asked, taking a step closer to the older man on instinct.

"The B-Boys," he explained, leaning back in his seat, "Bubble, Bastard, and Boy."

Inwardly, she let a scream of triumph. "Boy?" she asked, "Is there a name you can give us? We looked, but couldn't find anything—and the archives—"

"—are gone," the old man completed for him.

She nodded. "The fire—" the Janitor Short Leg said, "it happened at my last year—never seen something like that before," he said, shaking his head, "not even in Korea. It was as if hell came down on to earth." He paused, letting an old breathy sigh, "They said it was a miracle there was no causality." He shrugged. "No one cared for archives then."

And it was quite convenient. Too convenient, in fact. "Do you know about this Boy, sir?" she asked, walking closer, "His name—"

He shook his head. "Too many children—" he repeated again, and gave her a look, unfocused eyes finding hers, "Nevertheless, he can't be the one you're looking for," he said with a definite finality.

"Why?"

"His parents—they're already dead—" he answered, and paused for a second before he continued, "Murdered one night, in the morning they brought him." She narrowed her eyes, exchanging a look with Rory. "It was just the night Waynes killed—" Her head snapped at the older man. He leaned forward, and whispered, "Mobsters. Something went bad, and they got gunned down—right in front of his eyes."

Without a word, Valerie stared at him, the older man continued, "I still remember it just like today. I was reading the papers about Bruce Wayne—" He shook his head, his tone as misted as his eyes, "Then the police brought him—I could never forget it. His parents probably got what they deserved—but the poor thing, I thought—the poor thing—" He paused for a shaky breath, "In one part of the city there was a wealthy orphan, and at the other side, another player, a poor one, and I knew the world wasn't gonna be a good place for neither of them."

Valerie let out a sharp breath, and closed in on the older man further. "Have you ever heard about him after he left the orphanage?"

The man shook his head. Rory came closer, too. "His friends," he asked, "Richard and Daniel—do you know anything about them?"

The veteran gave up a shrug. "Heard they're in the city, but I don't know what they do." She nodded, as Rory told to the old man to call them if he remembered anything else before they walked back to the car.

Inside the car, she noticed her hands were trembling. She clutched at the wheel, and waited for the tremors pass. She'd found what she'd come for; a lead, a murder in same the night Bruce had lost his parents, and she had no idea how he was going to take that.

* * *

She found him in the exact same position she'd left, hunched over the computer, this time checking his security. For the party, Alfred had moved the head security from Wayne Enterprises to the Manor as Bruce allowed no kind of security in the manor's grounds in order to avoid any unfortunate event that would lead anyone to Batman. She already knew Fox had fired almost every head in the security this morning, but Valerie could hardly blame them for incompetence. How could they do their job when they weren't even allowed to walk in the grounds freely?

No, the problem wasn't with the security. The problem was, well, it was _the_ secret. He needed someone who knew who Bruce Wayne was. She almost asked Jason to get Bruce's security into the shape, but she wasn't going to force Bruce's hands this time. First she was going to talk to him. Besides, she wasn't sure if she wanted Jason stay _that_ long, either.

Bruce turned to her, as she walked into the study, and she saw the tale-tale signs—squared jaw, tightened lips, clenched eyebrows. "What?" she asked, "What happened?" He wouldn't have learned her news. Would he?

He shook his head. "I'm not sure," he replied, his eyes turning to the screen, and she saw the security footage from last night. "I was watching the footage. The more I think about this, the less it makes sense."

"I thought they were _spreading the word_ ," she intoned, sitting down at the chair opposite his.

"Yeah, but it's a bit too much risky for the outcome," he remarked. His clenched his eyebrows tightened further, as he stared at the screen harder. "It was as if—" he stopped.

Her eyes narrowed, too. "As if what?"

"When I was in the prison," he said, turning to her, and doing something he so seldom did, talking about the past, "I used to stage fights to see how quick guards would response to any disturbance—"

She interjected quickly. "Estimating the response time," she said, "we all used to do it—" She stopped, "Oh. You think it was a stage attack to determine your response time?" Her eyes narrowed more. "Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. It's just a thought." He looked at her. "How did it go with you?" he asked then, "Found anything?"

"Well, I found—uh—a lead," she said, suddenly squirming in her seat.

Bruce half arched an eyebrow. "And?"

"I told the janitor I'm hired by someone to find her child. The old man didn't remember his name, but he remembered Boy," she explained, then took a long breath, "But told me it couldn't be the one I'm looking because—" she hesitated, not knowing how to continue, "Because his parents are already dead. Killed in a clash."

Bruce's face was impossible to read. "When?" he asked, voice just above a rasped whisper.

A lump in her throat, and a pinch in her chest, she stared at him, and answered, "26th June, 1985."

A dead silence fell in the room, as Bruce stared at her back.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in the same silence, the ghosts of the past haunting them, as they tried to catch them. Like he needed to protect himself, Bruce moved to the cave, stating that they needed to check police records.

And he hadn't talked since then.

Half an hour ago, Valerie had decided to give him some space, and left the cave. It had seemed like a good plan; it was almost dinner time, and it would give her an opening, but as she stared at the tray in front of the counter in the kitchen, she felt like an idiot.

It wasn't anything fancy; she'd fixed a light supper; a sandwich and orange juice, surmising Bruce wouldn't be in the mind for any real dinner, but still, she felt like an idiot.

To think that tomorrow they'd go to a dinner date, she scoffed at herself, taking the tray. Dammit, she didn't even call Jason to check out if _he_ was going out with Dr. Quinzel. She had no idea how their life became so twisted so suddenly _so_ many times time; one moment they fucked in the closets like horny teenagers, then the next chased ghosts.

Even though Bruce was surprised to see her bringing him dinner, there was no expression in his face. There was no expression over his stoic face since that time she had announced the murder's date. "Brought you something to eat," she said, putting the tray on the workbench, "It's nothing fancy—"

"I'm not hungry," Bruce refused, not even giving her a side look, his eyes fixed at the screens.

She held out a sigh, and nodded. "Okay." She sat in the other stool. If he didn't want to talk, she wasn't going to push him. But perhaps he wanted her to push him—so he could talk… she wasn't sure. He always pushed her to get through her, and at the end, she always caved in…

Inwardly, she let out a sigh. This—talking, sharing—it was a mess. And it was exactly the reason she wasn't cut for relationships. She didn't know what to do. She understood him, she knew how it was to stay there and watch someone you care die, and not being able to do anything, she understood it, but she didn't know what else she could do. Though she felt there must be something _else_ she should do. They were together now because she wanted more. Therefore, she should do more.

The problem was she didn't know how to do it. So she did what came to her natural. She looked at the screens, and asked, "Found anything?"

Bruce gave out a half snort, his attention still fixed ahead, not looking at her. All in her defense, Bruce Wayne wasn't cut all that much for relationships, either.

"Luckily things weren't this bad back then. Not many were killed in the same night," he remarked, his voice acerbic in bitter irony. "The Caldwell family." He pulled a file. _A mob reconciliation_ , she read from an inner side newspaper's page, something that made up to the side columns at the back pages.

"The police records say there was a clash in front of their house," Bruce explained, "a rival group busted their house. A man of thirty, a woman of twenty-six, and a little girl of five died," he went on, his tone turning colder and colder, "The only survivor is—" He pulled out another report, and a little boy's photo appeared over the screen, "Elliot Caldwell," he introduced him to her, "a.k.a the man we know as Boy."

Valerie looked at the child. His eyes—there was something in his eyes, something cold—almost terrifying. No child should look at you in that way, no child. "Ten years ago he—disappeared, never been sighted since then, too."

"Ten years ago," Valerie repeated, "When a fire burned where he grew up down to the ground."

"Quite convenient, isn't it?" Bruce shot back, thinking the same thing she had, "I've searched him through all databases I've got access—" His eyes turned to her, "Nothing. He's a ghost."

She tried a smile, "Well, it isn't the first time you caught a ghost, Bruce."

Her attempt stonewalled by the stony look he gave her. "I didn't catch you, Valerie, _you_ caught me." He turned aside, and jumped down from his stool, "I'm going out."

"What?" she asked, quickly following him, "Where?"

"I'll see Gordon," he said, and she let out a deep breath out, "Watch the screens." He pointed the Donna Hansen's house, where the two B-Boys were lounging in the late Sunday night. Even criminals took a day off once in a while, but certainly not Batman. "I want to know if there is something." He turned to her, his eyes holding the same look, "And I want to know it _as soon as_ it happens."

She grimaced, mouthing a bastard after him.

* * *

Thank god for all things sacred and godly, the rest of the night passed without an event. Bubble Gum and Dan stayed in the house, fighting over to the channels to pick up something to watch, while Bruce briefed Gordon in his full Batman mode, even without the Suit. Gordon didn't look like he was at unease with dealing with him, but then again, he had been the one who had been dealing with Batman since the beginning, whereas she always dealt with the man she had fallen for; Bruce Wayne. Even though they felt awkwardness, they were nothing in their body language or in their voices to suggest it, they looked the same. At the same moment, Valerie understood Gordon preferred Batman instead of the puzzling man underneath. Things weren't easy with Batman, but they were simpler. You knew where you stood with Batman.

Bruce returned just after the midnight, and they called it a night, and went up. At the second floor hall, she stopped, and turned to the staircase as Bruce started walking toward the master bedroom. He stopped when he realized she wasn't following him. He turned around, and looked at her.

"I—should go back to the hotel—" she announced. She needed to do something. _She_ was the one sleeping with Batman, not anyone else. He was brewing a storm inside, she could feel it, sense the strain. She remembered their time in the backseat, the way he had crushed his lips on hers…the way he had snapped. Did she want that?

He narrowed his eyes. "It's too late."

She shrugged. "Rory left me the car."

His eyes bore through hers, and he nodded. "Okay."

And just like that, with a simple nod, and he turned and started walking away. She looked at his retreating back, her eyes widened. Just like that, just like that, he let it go. Then _she_ snapped. "You're a fucking idiot, Bruce Wayne!" she shouted after his back, "an idiotic coward!"

His body stiffened, like coiling into steel, then he spun on his heels. "Am I the coward?" he hissed back, "You're the one who wants to run here—" He walked over to her, "And how many times did you lock yourself in the bathroom in Belfast?"

She ignored the last part. "I'm not running," she refused, "I thought—I thought if you heard—" she trailed off, looking at him.

But Bruce already understood what she was trying to say. His eyes narrowed into a slit line, and he closed in on her.

"You thought if you walked out on me, I would—what?" he asked, looking at straight back, "You thought I'd beg you to stay?" His eyes turned even sterner, as his voice, "I'm not one of your old conquests, Valerie. You can't manipulate me like this."

Her eyes widened. "I wasn't trying to manipulating you! I was trying—" She shook her head. Okay, maybe she was trying to manipulate him a bit, but goddammit what else she could do with the goddamn Batman, she had no idea. She gave out a sigh. "Bruce, I'm trying to help, but I—I don't know to what to do," she confessed.

Something shifted in his eyes, as they softened. He walked closer to her, and let out a subsided sigh, too. "Valerie, you don't need to do anything," he said, "Just your presence is enough."

He didn't talk further, but his body did in his stead. He took her in his embrace, as he inhaled softly, his head pressed in her hair, and told her to stay in his own way.

* * *

It was different. Bruce brought her back to the bedroom, and they fumbled in the bed, but they didn't fuck. They just lay down over the sheets, still in their clothes, his hand brushing through her hair lightly. It was more intimidate than anything they had ever done. She felt that was what he really needed, like he'd said; just her. She didn't need to do anything _else_.

But after five minutes, Bruce broke the silence with a low voice. "I was eight," he said, "Rachel and me—we were playing finder-keepers. She found an arrowhead, and I snitched it away from her hands."

He paused for a second, and without a word, Valerie waited him to continue. And a second after, he did. "In our grounds, there is a well, a well to the cave. My father and Alfred had closed it. I went there to hide, but the wooden cracked under my feet and I fell through it to the cave." His voice was so slow Valerie had to strain her ears even further to hear his next words. "Bats—they were everywhere. They attacked me."

"I developed a phobia after then," he continued, "couldn't sleep at nights, whenever I did, bats were always there. I started having attacks." Still without any word, Valerie listened. She'd sensed before he had a history with bats, but this wasn't sounding like anything she'd imagined. She'd just thought he'd a fixation for bats when he was a child, something a childlike affinity but not like this. Though, she should have known better. This was Bruce Wayne, with him there was always more than meets the eye. He used to have panic attacks, and it was the first time she'd heard about it. Him having anxiety for anything. He was always so sure himself, so firmly stationed, like deep roots old trees, trees that could even endure hurricanes. He'd endured _hers_.

"A month later," he started again, his rough voice taking a catch further, "it was my parents' anniversary. My father bought my mother a pearl necklace, and we went to see _Mefistofele_."

Pearl necklace. Something prickled her eyes; for her birthday, he'd given her a pearl necklace, just the way his father had done. The first thing in the morning, she was going to buy him that Zorro special edition. First thing. "The opera has some haunting figures in it, close to bats. I got scared and another attack hit me—" He stopped again, and this time she lifted her head from where it rested over his chest, and looked at him. He inclined his head downward, and caught her look. "My father understood it. In a moment, he took us out from the back exit. We went out from the Park Row side."

There again another pause, "It wasn't like now—it was a still half decent neighborhood, but slowly decaying. We walked out through the door, my father told mother he wanted some fresh air—" A brief ghostly smile passed over his face before it vanished—"Then we saw him. He was standing at the other side of the alley, looking at us with a look I wouldn't understand for a long time. He started walking toward us. My father tried to get us away out in the street, but suddenly the man was in front of us, holding his gun at my father."

The rest she could imagine. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes. "He asked my father's wallet. He pulled it out, trying to soothing him. The man took it, then turned to my mother—and asked the pearl necklace—" He stopped, his voice was so low now. Valerie held him tighter. "He made a move toward the necklace, my father reacted—and the man too—He fired the gun, and shot him—in the heart. Then he fired again, to the mother." He paused again, and whispered, "They just dropped."

"I looked at Chill—" he finally uttered the name, "He looked at me back—then he turned around and ran away. I sat beside them then, and waited." His tone suddenly hardened, "Don't be afraid… my father's last words. He looked at me just before he closed his eyes, and told me that—"Bruce, don't be afraid." His tone turned even harder, like steel, "You're right, Val, I'm a coward. If I didn't get scared, we wouldn't have been in that alley, and they wouldn't have died."

Inwardly, she cursed herself. That wasn't what she'd meant. She always knew he was blaming himself for his parent's death, but his wasn't cowardice. She lifted her head, opening her eyes, and looked at him. "That wasn't what I meant, Bruce. You're the bravest person I've ever known."

He shook his head, angling his neck to look at her back. "I am not, Valerie. I wanted to kill him for a long time for what he'd done."

"It's okay—" she said, "we all feel revenge—"

He shook his head again. "You don't understand. I was going to do it. I was going to kill him. Twelve years later he made a bargain with DA's office. He was going to give them Falcone, and they were going to get him out on parole." The steel in his voice turned darker, fiercer, close to his rasp. "He killed my parents, and they were going to free him—like nothing happened." He exhaled a sharp breath. "I bought a gun, and went to the hearing. They did it, they set him free. Outside the hall I pulled out my gun, but before I could fire, Falcone's hired man gunned him down." He paused for a second, and confessed, a bitter, curt irony edging his voice further, "The only reason I'm not a killer now because someone acted before me."

She let out a sigh. "Bruce, it's okay," she repeated again. "You—you wanted revenge. It's okay. No one is perfect."

There was a brief silence in the room, as Bruce didn't respond her back. She decided to tell him about Clara, because suddenly it felt right, like he needed to know it, knew that she could understand him. "I—when I was in the prison, there was this doctor, Clara. She helped me a great deal, she even saved my life. I—"

Then he said something he least expected. He pulled her closer, and whispered, "Valerie, baby, I know—" For a second, she even stopped breathing, "Jason—" Bruce continued, as she left the breath she was holding, "When he learned about my plans, he told me about it." He looked at her, tilting his head downward, "He was worried for you."

She let out another breath. She was—she didn't know. She didn't know how she felt. She must have felt angry, but she couldn't find anger, not when she was cocooned in the warm embrace of Bruce Wayne, and they were closer in a way not even the dark secrets of their past wouldn't disturb the tranquility it provided. "So—you knew?" she could only ask, more with curiosity than frustration.

He nodded. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

His eyes found hers. "He told me if I ever told you about it, you would never talk to him again."

She stared at him back. "Then why did you tell me now?"

He shrugged, his hand caressing her hair back over her shoulder. "I wanted you to know it." He paused for a second, "Jason—Jason told me we're cut from the same cloth, not sharing our past. It was time we changed that."

She smiled faintly. "He told me he'd told you that—" He looked at her down, his eyebrows furrowing, "FYI, though, he made an amendment for that statement. We're not cut from the same cloth. We're cut off from the same shit."

He reflected her smile back. "Guess he's right," he muttered.

"Yeah, unfortunately, he usually is," she muttered back with another sigh. "So that's why you left Gotham?" she asked after the brief silence, and somehow it didn't feel awkward.

He shook his head. "Not really—" he answered, "I—" He hesitated for a second, "Rachel picked me up from the hearing. She told me about Falcone—and I told her I should thank him for what he did. We—we had a fight. She drove me to Falcone then, saying that he's the problem, not Chill, and if I still wanted to thank him. She told me Gotham needed good people like us to fight for her, to fight with the kinds like Falcone. I told her I wasn't one of her good people, and showed her the gun, said I was going to kill Chill." He stopped again, letting out a sharp breath from his nose, "She slapped me, and said my father would have been ashamed of me, then kicked me out of the car."

Rachel. She'd never thought of the late lawyer before, not really, always thought of her a sort of Bruce's own wishful thinking, like her own relationship with Michael, and perhaps in a way she'd been, but she could see now she'd done a mistake assessing her and her connection to Bruce. Rachel wasn't just a wishful thinking but was a woman of her own who had stood in Bruce's life in a way even she herself wouldn't surpass.

And that the tightness in her chest must be the real jealousy, something she had never felt before for any man. It was different than seeing him kissing or making up with other women—no, it was more profound, more hurting, knowing that she wasn't the only woman he'd shared a part of himself, a part that she had no place. It didn't change her own connection to him, but that pinch in her chest was nevertheless there.

"I went to see Falcone—" His voice cut through her thoughts. She snapped her head up, and looked at him.

"What?"

"I-I was angry—very, very angry—and what Rachel said…it made sense…she'd said they wouldn't do anything to him, because he paid the right people and everyone else was afraid. I wanted to show him there was someone who wasn't afraid of him."

Suddenly she remembered it; Batman's first catch, his great entrance…It was Falcone. Her mind started turning. How stupid she was not to see the connections before…a criminal negligence, there was no coincidence with Bruce Wayne.

"He made fun of me—" he said, his voice turning darker, "told me shameful, but also very true things. He called me Prince of Gotham, told me it was a world that I could never understand, so would always fear." He paused again, "They beat me up a little, nothing too serious, as if I'm even not worth for a good fight, then they sent me away. The next thing I knew I was looking at the gun in my hands, his words turning in my mind. So at the dawn, I threw the gun in the sea, swore I'd never touch again such a thing, and gave away my coat and wallet to a homeless, and sneaked away up in a vessel that was leaving for East."

Her chest tightened again, this time for different reasons. She wished she could have changed the past, washed away his pain. She could do neither of them, but she could help him fighting these demons and ghosts of the past. That was at least what she could do. She inhaled deeply, snugging him closer, and tightened her arms. "Bruce, we're gonna find that man, I promise."

* * *

In the morning, they woke up with the same clothes from the night, as they'd dozed into sleep, their bodies still tangled to each other. Her every muscle was numb, tingles going all over her body as she tried to extricate herself off Bruce's grip. Bruce was much better, his body being accustomed to staying still long hours without motion, yet while he got up from the bed, still a grimace strained his lips.

Funny enough, there was no awkwardness. They didn't tiptoe around each other, eyes darting away. With a moderate smile, she gave him a quick good morning kiss, and walked to bathroom, albeit a bit slowly and shaking. Bruce dropped himself on the floor freestyle, and started doing his push-ups, and pretended not noticing the fleeting looks she cast at his figure whilst walking.

No matter what, some things never changed.

She exited the bathroom, towel drying her hair, as he sat at the chair around the table, reading the newspapers. She started changing into a dark suit that was in the Bruce's wardrobe. "Today you're going to interview Earle?" Bruce asked, as she slipped her arms through the suit's jacket.

She nodded, checking her reflection in the mirror. "Yeah, Fox wanted him to be the first one." She pursed her lips, adjusting the jacket's hems, "I think he's pulling Earle's chains."

With a little smile, Bruce nodded back. "I told him that." She smiled back, shaking her head. "I'll come before lunch," he continued, "I need to see Fox for the new security." Losing the sudden small mirth he'd found, his demeanor changed quickly, his jaw clenching.

She turned to him. "I was going to talk to you about that," she said, walking toward him, and sat at the bed's edge.

"I don't think the problem is them, Bruce," she started, recalling her earlier thoughts, "They're trying their best, but you don't let them." He gave her a look. She shook her head. "You can't expect them do their job, while keeping stuff hidden from them. They're at least four places here they're not even allowed to enter, let alone defend it."

He frowned. "So what do you suggest?" he asked with a stoic sarcasm, "Tell them who I am?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, silly, I'm telling you need someone who _already_ knows it," she said pointedly, recalling what he'd told her first when they first made their bargain. _I need someone, someone with skills, someone who knows who I am._

"You're telling I need you as my security chief?" Bruce asked, arching his eyebrow, suspicion still clear in his eyes.

She huffed. "No, I'm telling you need Jason!" she shot back, "He can put your security into the shape, and you wouldn't need to hide anything from him as he already knows about you."

He looked at her keenly. "So you don't mind him sticking around?"

She gave out another huff, and she stood up from the bed. She started walking out. "Just don't tell him it was my idea."

* * *

Half an hour later, she was walking in the busy downtown pedestrian traffic of the Monday morning. Before she went to the Wayne Tower, she dropped by the bookstore, and bought the special Zorro edition. She put in the illustrated book into the store's shopping bag, but didn't want any other gift packaging. It was better this way.

She walked to the Tower then. In front of the main entrance, there was only one guard, standing with a dark look over his face. Valerie could imagine why. She walked to the turnstiles with the morning crowd, and passed her ID card over the slot. She stepped to the gate, but as soon as she put a foot further in the X-Ray gate, the alarms went off.

"Ma'am," the young guard said from the other side of the gate, looking at the screen in front of him. "I can't let you pass with it." There was an apologetic tone in his voice, of a man who had somehow got stuck with a job that he wasn't actually qualified for.

Low grunts started behind her. She glanced back and saw that the small crowd that was building up. She moved aside and opened up the way, and saw her former department head walking by her rapidly before anyone else could even move a finger. Valerie wasn't surprised. During all the five months she'd spent in the Wayne Tower, Miranda Tate had been always marching down to somewhere, her sharp heels clinking at the floor as if she walked to a battle, which she usually did. The board of directors of the Wayne Enterprises was a battlefield in its own, and Tate was a junior partner with enough stamina and ambition to get her piece of it.

As the woman walked through the gates, Valerie turned to the clueless guard again. She approached him over the X-ray aisle. "My gun's registered—" she said, frustration entering in her voice, "and I'm a licensed private detective. I can't leave it around."

The young guard's face looked even more torn, and he gave a couple of looks around, then returned to her. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I really can't," he said, "I'm—"

Suddenly Fox appeared beside them, and gave the guard a smile didn't come to her foreign. "I'll give you a memo for the detective, son," he said, and directed her toward the gate again, "Open up the way."

Well, saved by the devil himself. "Thank you," she said, passing through the gate.

Fox gave her a smile too, and walked over through the gate himself, too. "My pleasure," he said, "We—"

A low whistle from her back ripped the air, and then glass shatters followed. Without any thought, she dropped the shop bag in her hand, and clutched the man in front of her. Turning over her axis, she pulled him down, supporting his weight over her shoulder, but even before they hit the ground, she knew it was already too late.

Funny things the brain chose to focus at the time of crisis. She looked down, to the man laying almost across her lap limbless, but her eyes picked the Zorro special edition that lay a few feet away them in a pool of blood, the black painted with red, creating patterns like an inkblot test. Her words echoed in her mind— _determining the response time_.

And there was no response, but her. With a curse, she crawled toward the aisle, pulling her gun out of its holster, and looked up toward the shattered entrance to find the source of sniper fire.

* * *

 _ ***The player on the other side;** it's the title of the comic book Wrath first appeared, and also a quote from Thomas Henry Huxley. In the comics, Bruce had quoted it for Wrath, and it came to me a perfect title for this chapter._

 _ ***"B-Boys"** abb. belongs to **persevera**._


	15. Part IV-III

**Part IV. III – "Danse Macabre"**

* * *

At the newly dawn, the old man woke up with a sudden jerk, the details of his dream still clearly in his conscious. He wasn't sure if he was still dreaming, the dream was so real, the way his late wife smiled at him, the way his murdered son rolled his eyes at him; covertly, and a little bit ashamed but old habits die hard. He wasn't a child anymore, but he was still his son. Tears came to his eyes. It all felt so real, so palpable. He remembered the old tale about the butterfly and another old man.

 _Once upon a time, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting about happily enjoying himself._

He wished it was all a dream, but at the moment the thought crossed over his mind, he knew with no shade of doubt that it wasn't. His eyes skipped toward the list at the table. The rest of it. _The half of it as down payment as agreed, and the rest of it after the job is done_ , so was the terms of the contract.

He closed his eyes, and murmured his partner's words, _this is a war._

 _And one must have the courage to do all that was necessary…_ His knees gave up, and he dropped at the floor, _to win._

In the background, there was music; soft and tender, like the gentle sunlight. He recognized it at the first note. Devil's Trill. His laughter came together with his tears. How very fitting.

* * *

Screams echoed at the high ceilings as the crowd in the hall of Wayne Tower noticed their bleeding CEO on the ground. Her eyes screened the perimeters, but from her vantage point there was nothing to see, and given that no gunshot followed, Valerie knew that the sniper had already completed the task.

Killing Fox. Her eyes found the down man again, shot in the heart. For a second that felt like eons, Valerie looked at him, once again feeling at lost how to _feel_. She was—sad, she supposed, yes, Fox and her—they had a complicated relationship, but he was Bruce's friends, and—her eyes turned to the crimson Zorro.

Bruce.

As the thought of him flashed in her mind, she knew this was going to be _bad. Very bad._

"Did you call the police?" She heard the forceful voice next to her. She craned her head aside, and looked at the woman she had just seen marching towards the elevators. Her former department head, Miranda Tate, was crouching at the other side of Fox now, her hands pressing at the wound at the chest. Too late for that, she passed inwardly, but shook her head.

Police. A murdered CEO. Wayne Enterprises. And she, Valerie West, as the first witness.

She held out the sigh at the tip of her tongue.

* * *

It was damn odd to be in the Metropolitan Hospital again, especially in the corridor that led to the morgue. The hall was familiar, too much for her comfort. She looked at the corner ahead of her. It was there her feet had tripped and she had almost floored down if not Bruce's strong grip on her. It felt like a dream now, another life time. A lot of things had changed since then.

 _A lot of._

Her eyes turned toward the homicide detectives in front of her.

"You were waiting in the lobby, ma'am?" the male detective asked for the second time as if to confirm, writing down on his notepad, his eyes looking at her over the rim of his little notepad.

She wondered what was about that he needed to feel confirmed, but she wasn't going to make a scene now. "Yes," she answered, keeping her tone in check. "We were about to pass through the gates. Then I heard the whizzing whisper, then shattering glass—"

"The camera footage shows that you pulled him down immediately," the detective's partner interrupted, "You have good reflex."

She looked at the redhead woman. She knew the duo. Thomas Burke and Pamela Isley. They were in the team of Homicide Chief Harvey Bullock, one of three that had signed her dead certificate in this same hospital ten days ago. If Burke and Isley were here, it meant Bullock was soon going to follow, too. She wanted to sigh, but contained herself, casting her eyes downward. She remembered how carefully treated with her suit this morning, to get herself something that would color her both classy and professional. It was colored with blood now. She half-shrugged, "Yes."

"You're the company's PI?" Burke asked, even though he knew she was.

She nodded, as the door to the hospital's left wing's opened. "Yes," she answered, her eyes skipping toward the entrance. "Today is my first day." A nurse came through the door. She turned her eyes away. No police. She shot another look at the door. No Bruce, either. She wondered how Alfred broke the news to him. Dammit! She needed to be there, like she had promised him last night, she needed to hold his hand, and never let it go when he lost someone else he cared.

She knew how she felt now. Anger. She balled her hands tightly in her palms as it swept over her like a raging fire. She needed to keep her calm. She was just a private detective, no more attachments. But it was easier said than done.

"One hell of a first day," Burke murmured in the sudden brief silence.

Her head snapped at him, a glare ready to shoot at him, but at the second she saw the look over his grim face, she shook her head, defeated, anger fading, a sigh dropping out of her mouth. "Yeah."

"Do you know anyone who would want him dead?"

She returned to Isley. So the real interrogation had started. She had thought—had hoped they would have at least waited until she came to the headquarters. The corridor in front of the morgue was hardly a suitable place for a murder investigation.

"Mr. Fox was the figurehead of one of the wealthiest companies in the world," she answered carefully, "A lot of people would want a man like that dead." It was an evasive answer, of course, but she wasn't going to spill the beans before she talked to Bruce. Speaking of which, where the hell was he?

She had presumed he would have come to the hospital as soon as he heard the news, but two hours passed since the ambulance had arrived to the scene with the police, but Bruce was nowhere to be seen.

"But he hired you, a private detective," Isley pressed on further, "There must be something he was suspicious of."

She shook her head. "Perhaps," she answered again vaguely, "but all international companies hire private detectives. You don't want the conditions of your tenders, biddings or company secrets sell to your rivals by your employees."

Burke scoffed, "Reasonable."

"It's life," she shot back, as the entrance door opened once again.

She turned swiftly and looked at Chief Bullock as he walked through the door together with Gordon.

Oh well.

* * *

Eyes focused at her intently, Gordon was giving her that look. "Detective," he greeted her with a slight curt bow of head.

She titled her head too in the same fashion. "Commissioner."

Burke turned to Gordon, his eyes narrowed. "You know each other, commissioner?"

"She's Wayne Enterprises PI," Gordon answered, "We met this weekend Bruce Wayne's birthday party," he explained, "The party was raided by the Unheards, and she caught two culprits." He paused for a second, "This could be about that?" he asked, his eyes assessing her carefully.

Goodness, she wasn't really ready to do this right now. "I don't know," she answered truthfully. "I haven't looked at that—accident yet. I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to. Didn't Mr. Wayne let them go?" she asked, and continued before the men could answer, "Besides, you saw them yourself, too. Did they look like to you like contract killers?"

"Contract killers?" the homicide chief interjected, "What made you say that?"

She turned to the chief. "The fact that he was killed by a sniper bullet?" she asked back, her tone getting clearly irritated. Chief Bullock frowned. She let out a sigh, closing her eyes. "I—am sorry," she backpedaled, "It's been a hard day, and this is hardly the place for interrogation. I need to return to home, and change my clothes," she said, wavering her hand over her blood-stained attire, "I'll come to headquarters in the afternoon and give my deposition. Is it okay?"

Bullock nodded. "Yes, detective," he said, "We wait you at one pm."

She nodded back, and turned to walk away, but before she took a step forward, the entrance door opened, and there he was Bruce Wayne, standing at the threshold, looking all grim and dark; unworldly.

Stopped dead where she stood, a shiver passed over her as she looked at him.

This was going to be indeed very bad.

* * *

For a moment or so, the whole world around him stopped, his eyes glued to her blood-covered figure. The next second, the world started turning, and he rushed to her side. "Valerie!" He caught her at the shoulders. "What happened to you? Are you hurt?"

Her eyes widened. "I—I'm fine. I was together with him—" she mumbled, casting a side look backward. His eyes followed too. Gordon and the rest of his company were looking at him, their eyes speculatively narrowed. Dropping his arms, he took a step back. "Didn't Alfred tell you?" she asked, her voice close to a whisper.

He shook his head slightly. "We—didn't talk much. He just said Fox—" He stopped. Fox was dead. Attacked in front of the Wayne Enterprises. Alfred didn't clarify much, and Bruce didn't ask, either. His friend was dead, killed in front of their home. Nothing else mattered. _Not yet._ "Where is he?" he rasped.

"Bruce—" Valerie started, her eyes taking that scarce look when she felt vulnerable.

"Where is he?" he hissed, cutting her off.

Her sigh was barely audible. She indicated the last door at the end of the corridor with her head. He turned aside and started walking but before he arrived to what he supposed to be the morgue, Gordon cut his way. "Mr. Wayne," he greeted him.

"I will see him, Gordon," he said before the older man said anything else.

Gordon nodded with the same sigh Valerie had let out. "Okay, son," he said, "if you insist."

Bruce nodded back too, and walked toward the morgue, silently ordering Valerie stay behind with a look. She didn't need to see this. It was apparent she had seen enough. She didn't need to be in this morgue again.

His steps wavered over the threshold. He didn't need to be in this morgue, either, nor Fox. They all needed to be alive. His family, Rachel, Harvey…now Fox, too. Dead because of his cowardice. That bullet should have come for him. Someone wanted Fox dead, and he was sure that someone was from his board. They had swooped this down. And he had let them. He had done nothing. Watched again as someone he cared had taken from him.

He had failed. Again.

The smell in the cold room was pungent. Ammonia was sterile, and heavy. It filled in the lungs, made it even heavier with despair.

He walked to the island in the middle of the room. There laid another friend, a sheet covered his face and body. Bruce walked closer, and lowered the shield, until his chest revealed, and the bullet wound appeared, red and purple. The smell grew unbearable. Bile rose in his throat as snapshots flashed in his mind.

 _Two shots in the dark, first Mother dropped… then Father followed…_

His eyes were closed. He opened them, and looked at Fox.

Dead.

Shot in the heart.

Bloodied heart.

Red and purple.

He turned and walked out. He sat in the chairs outside, propping his elbows over his knees, and bowed his head. He didn't realize Chief Bullock stood in front of him until he heard him calling his name. "Mr. Wayne—" Bruce lifted his head. "Mr. Wayne—" the man called again, "Do you have any suspect who would do this?"

Suspects? A lot of. A lot of them.

He looked at the homicide chief, and said, "No."

* * *

Back in the manor, he went to the cave at the first thing. Wordless, albeit an inward sigh, Valerie dutifully followed.

 _No,_ rang in her mind.

She wasn't surprised of hearing his answer, not really. Of course he would deny any help. She just wasn't sure if it was a good idea as of the moment. She looked at him as he walked purposely toward the glass vault where the armored suit was sat.

"Bruce—" she said, but he cut her off with a hiss like he had done in the hospital.

"Save it, Valerie—" he rasped out, "I'm going out."

She walked him closer, and stopped his hand as he opened the vault. "You can't," she said slowly. His head snapped at her. She shook her head. "Bruce, you can't—not like that," she continued, her voice soft. She understood him, she knew he wanted revenge, he wanted justice. He wanted to find who was responsible for his friend's death, but Batman couldn't get involved with that, not like that. "You know you can't," she said, "What common Batman and Lucius Fox do have?" she pressed further, "If Batman showed up now, it's gonna be only suicide."

She recalled how easily he had been ready to throw his life away to cast off to save Rory in Belfast. But that was a different time, and he was a different man then, too. She took a step forward, and her hand moved down, and found his. She squeezed his hand, tightly. "Bruce, whoever behind this, we're going to find it," she promised once again, "Let me help you."

For a moment, he stayed motionlessly. She came even closer. "Bruce, this isn't your fault," she whispered, looking at him.

He looked at her back, still without a word, then took his hand away. He turned away. Closing her eyes, she let out a sigh, but didn't speak further. He stalked to the computer hub, and powered up his stations. She followed him, and sat at the stool next to him.

* * *

The night was soft, tender. The old man waited. His hand went to his pocket, and he touched the little paper in there. Half of it as down payment as agreed, and the rest of it after the job is done. When he closed his eyes, the music was playing in his mind. Soft, tender tendrils reaching into night, toward that magical hour between dream and reality. Violins rose and lowered like summer breeze, their touch was a lover's caress. Purity, there was purity in each note, in each score. Perfection. Devil's masterpiece. He felt like Tartini, he felt like Faust who made a pact with the devil in exchange of his soul.

He then remembered Zhou. The same old man who couldn't be sure if he was a butterfly who had dreamed being Zhou when he woke up. Could it be true? Sometimes he caught himself feeling like he had been indeed living in a dream ever since that faithful his family had taken away from him. Perhaps it was true, in another world, somewhere else, at some happier place, his son and his wife were still alive, and they were still happy as they had been before. But how could one know for sure? What was the reality when the whole world could be just a butterfly's dream?

Such a cruel fate, such a cruel destiny.

The devil he knew soon appeared in the dark street. He was still as taciturn as ever, tall and proud, and beautiful. The devil he knew looked at him. "The rest of it, please," he stated with the same cultivated voice, terribly gentle, but bare of any emotion.

 _Half of it as down payment as agreed, and the rest of it after the job is done_ , so was the term of their contract. The pact they had done. And the devil had already taken his first victim. Others were going to follow soon, too, the old man was certain.

But it was the part of their deal. His partner had promised him a better world, a better life, where he didn't need to question whether all was just a dream. The music rose higher in his ears, violins screeching high up in the air; encouraging, reassuring, promising. After all, all he needed was the courage to do what was necessary.

He shoved his hand into his pocket and took out the list. He handed it to him.

A flicker in the air, a sudden movement, then the man hesitated, looking at the thin paper he held in his fingers. At the moment, he didn't look like the devil, but just like a young man who was after his own revenge. A fellow soul who had done in his own pact with his own devil.

They looked at each other for a split of the second, then the brief moment faded like how dreams faded at the new dawn. His contractor took the list, and read the names quickly. A little smile blossomed over his lips.

The soft laughter broke the music, and the silence of the street. The old man looked at the contract killer. The man hid the list in his coat, and gave him a sinister smirk, devilishly tempting, before he tilted his head back at him. "Have a good night, Mr. Fredericks."

His eyes widened, the old man looked at his returning back. Mr. Fredericks. Douglas Fredericks. That was his name. The violins started again, this time higher; forming a call to a dance. He wasn't the devil. No, he was a Wrath. He was the death. And his was the call to the danse macabre.

* * *

 _*Devil's Trill is from Tartini, Danse Macabre is from Camille Saint-Saens._


	16. Part V-I

**Part V. I – "More"**

* * *

The day started early for an assassin. Precisely at six in the morning, Floyd Lawton's alarm went off, ordering him to open his eye with a single beep. He stepped out of the bed and took his eyepatch from his bed stand. He wore it over his left eye. On his way to the bathroom, his eye caught the shot of the woman at the white board in the drawing room, tied to an illustrated drawing of Batman with a single cord. She was going to give him Batman, he had been so sure of it. The thought of the failure soured his face as he stepped in the shower, but he didn't let himself ponder on it. Not now. This was a new day. Looking at the mirror, Floyd Lawton took off the eyepatch, and set in his blue glass eye.

Outside of his building, as soon as he set a foot outside, a black Lincoln pulled over. He smirked. So Control had arrived, too. He had been waiting. He walked to the anonymous car, and stepped in.

Inside he settled at the one side of the two rows of seat facing each other, and looked at Mercy who sat beside their superior. Unlike the night before, she looked in control, the unfamiliar frenzy had passed, or at least covered up. Lawton was glad. Seeing Mercy like that made him feel—murderous. His attention turned to the woman next to her. Unlike the bony and stiff Mercy, the head of the Task Force X was a woman of curves. Her exterior didn't suggest anything more than a suburban mother whose life didn't extend over her family, but it was all a well-crafted lie. No one knew nothing about her past, other than her name; Amanda Waller, but she never used it, either. For all intents and purposes, she was just Control.

Lawton greeted her with a slight nod. "Ma'am."

She looked at him, her puffy lips pulling down in a derisive gesture. "You missed," she only said.

A scene from the old days flashed in his mind… _his left eye bleeding, but his arm still raised and aimed._ He had been so certain, so certain. Without a motion, he cast off the scene, and looked at Control. Mercy covertly swept a look at them under her head, silently waiting. Lawton kept his silence.

"ARGENT went south," Control restarted when he understood he wasn't going to take the bait, "Drop whatever you're—" another derisive smirk pulled her lips further down, "—playing here, and finish this." Her eyes nailed at his, "For good."

A brief smile quickly passed over Mercy's lips before her face turned to her usual impassive state. _Drop whatever you're playing…_ For a second or so, he thought of killing both women. It couldn't be hard. He looked at their necks. Control's neck wasn't like Mercy, not soft or delicate. It was thick and stiff, stout. The other woman's image appeared in his mind as she lay over the morgue's metal table; thin, delicate neck, covered with faint scars. _Drop whatever you're playing._ "Any involved third parties?" he questioned.

"Terminate," Control ordered, stern voice hard as concrete, "with extreme prejudice." She leaned forward for an inch, before saying the last, "This cannot come to us."

* * *

It was the fade sunlight that slipped through the cracks in the cave's stone walls that made Bruce aware that a new day had started. Straightening in his seat, he squinted at the bug in front of him on the workbench. He knew it all too well. It was home-made, nothing to suggest his owner or where it had been made. Once it had been a puzzle to solve, but now it stood like a token for his failure. Two months, two months ago he had discovered, and had done nothing. The failure was clear. Once again he had started letting things go by him, only reacted when action happened.

If he ever wanted to change something, it had to be the reverse. It was the heart of the Batman; he should be the source of action, not the other way around. When Batman reduced to be just a response, things had a tendency to turn worse in Gotham. It had happened with Ducard, it had happened with the Joker, now it was happening again. It was the same mistake all over again. He should be out, he should be doing something, turning the city upside down, looking in every hole, every corner, every shadow…

His eyes skipped to left, and found the vault. He should be out, he should be— "Look," Valerie's voice cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to the reality. She gave him a side look as if she wasn't aware of what he had been just about to do, but he knew her too much not to take her just-in-time interruption just as a good-timing.

"I calculated the CEP," she went on, pressing a key in front of her, and a 3D map of Business District showed up over the screens together with a diagram. She pushed another key, and Wayne Enterprises raised over the map, as diagram pushed up, "Perfect precision," she said, pointing the screen.

It was hardly a surprise. Last night he had ran a simulator and measured up the projectile range and CEP, and calculated a possible point of origin where the bullet might have come from. He needed to screen the area before anyone else contaminated the crime scene. It was his only lead. Chief Bullock and his team would figure it out on their own at any moment. There wasn't any time.

His eyes skipped toward his Suit again. "This doesn't make sense," he heard Valerie saying, a frown roughing her voice. He turned to her. Her eyes were clenched in the same way the clipped words were. "This's a job of professional, military rate. I can understand the board doesn't like Tabula Rasa or any change you're trying to make, but this—" She waved her hand at the hub, her words trailing off.

He stood up from his stool. "The Wayne Enterprises has never been the same after I got it back from Earle," he answered stiffly, walking toward the cage-lift, "Most of them think we need to start manufacturing weapons to protect ourselves. After Joker's attacks, things became grimmer. They tried to rule me out when you were away. I won it barely—"

Nodding, she cut him off, "Yes, I know," she said, and paused again.

Stopping, he turned to her. "What?" he asked.

She shook her head, frustrated, and jumped from her post, too, followed him. "I understand they wanted him—gone," she cast her eyes up at him, as if trying to gauge his reaction, then continued upon seeing his grimace. "Bruce, look," she waved her hand toward the computer hub. "Fox isn't the only CEO who got killed," she finally took it out of her mouth, "They're poisoned, mugged, killed in a staged accident, but never like this, not with a sniper's bullet."

She was right, and he was of course had noticed it. It was more than an assassination. It was a message; you're either with us, or against us. It was part of something bigger, deeper; Rupert Elliot's being chosen Mayor with a predominant majority, the Act 1010, the Dent Act. More than two hundred people had died in the last three years in Gotham because of terror. Something had changed in Gotham, and he couldn't stop it. "I know," he only said, taking his leather jacket from the peg beside the construction lift.

"Bruce," Valerie called behind him. Her voice was empathic now, worried and concerned. Closing in on him, she put her hand on his upper arm softly. "Bruce, this isn't your fault," she repeated what she had said last night. Once again, he said nothing. This time though she didn't give up, but pressed on. She drew closer, and looked at him, "You're doing our best, but you're only a man—"

Her last words finally broke something in him. His head snapped at her, "I can't be only a man!" he hissed. Taken aback with the sudden move, she flinched, their contact breaking.

He couldn't. He wished he could have, he wished he could have a life with Valerie, a normal life, like normal people, kids and other stuff, but it was just a wishful thinking. Rachel had been right. Bruce Wayne had never turned back. He could be only Batman, not a man.

* * *

Motionlessly, Valerie watched him leave, feeling the rift they had never truly managed to close up deepening further. She remembered the way they'd slept in the same bed in Belfast, how fifteen-inch felt like miles away. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed, closer they were than before, but still apart like planets.

After a long time, she felt—at loss. She didn't know what to do. What Jason had told her echoed in her ears. She had built a life here, yes, but everything she had was tied to Bruce, and when he withdrew, it felt like she lost something, like she was missing something, something important, something elemental, something vital. She felt she had lost a part of herself.

At the thought, she shook her head vigorously. No. She was Valerie. Valerie West. Private Detective, and all. She didn't need to do anything. Only being here was enough. But still she had promised, to be with him, beyond and above.

Walking purposely, she took her coat, and left the cave, too.

She wasn't going to sit idly. As she had promised Bruce, she was going to find him that man. They were going to end this. Then Bruce would lay down his burdens, at least for a time, and be just a man, for a little while.

* * *

From where he stood, Wayne Enterprises' main entrance seemed inconsequential. Next to him, Jason peeked below at the rooftop, and grimaced. Bruce wouldn't want the older man tagged along, but as his newly appointed chief of bodyguard, the former guerilla had an appearance to hold up, and he needed an alibi, just in case. He didn't expect anyone would find the place yet, at least Gordon would have warned him before, but he wasn't going to take his chances.

He pointed his laser range finder toward the main gate; 1,100 yd. If he was right, if this was the spot where the assassin's lair had been, then, it must be a record. Valerie was right on that regard. This kind of—professionalism with a firearm for a CEO was highly unusual.

As he crouched to survey the area, his lips tightened further. Whoever was behind this, they surely wanted to give a message. The problem was he didn't know what that message was; he only knew he had missed it.

His eyes lifted from the ground and found Jason as he gazed at the city below his feet. "You've seen Doctor Quinzel this Sunday?" he asked in a clipped voice.

With the sudden question, the older man turned around, and looked at him. "Yes?"

Bruce pulled up. "What does she say about all of these?" Bruce asked.

A crease appeared above Jason's eyebrows. "About Act 1010?" Bruce nodded. "What that has got anything with—the situation here?" Jason questioned, but Bruce already saw the wheels were turning in his head.

"I don't believe in coincidences," he intoned, crouching again to find a shell or a part of it, "Everything is connected. My party raided by Unheards, my security blew off, but my friend murdered because I don't oppose Act 1010. They're all connected, and there is a missing link between them, but I don't know it."

For a second, sunlight flashed over his eyes like gold. He leaned forward and looked closer…the golden flash burned brighter. "And you think she might?"

"I don't know—" he confessed truthfully. That was the problem; there were so many things he didn't know. Golden flashed another time. He put on a latex glove on his right hand and picked up a 7.62×51mm NATO cartridge's empty shell from the ground. "That's why I'm asking you," he said, standing up, putting the shell in his pocket in a plastic bag, and looked at Jason. "I want you to question her," he declared, "I want to know what he's doing."

The older man's frown deepened. "Who?"

There was no hesitance in his answer. "The Joker."

* * *

Closer to East Midtown, Derrick Malkin's office was only a few blocks away from Sundale Hotel. She crossed the intersection she passed daily to get to the motel before she started sleeping in the manor, and stopped in front of three stories brick building. She pressed on the bell that had the activist lawyer's name scripted unceremonially, and waited until a dispatched voice said through the megaphone, "Who's it?"

"Mr. Malkin, hello," Valerie answered, recognizing the male voice, "It's Detective West," she introduced herself, "We met this weekend at Wayne Manor," she continued, and added after a brief pause, "You bought me soda."

"Uh," the lawyer said, "Detective—"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions, if it's okay," she interrupted, "it's important."

The door opened without any further chitchat. She climbed up. When she was at his level, the door of his office was already open. "Detective, what a—surprise," the lawyer greeted, as he opened up the way for her.

She walked in. "Is it?" she asked, looking over her shoulder as the man closed the door. "You must have heard what happened yesterday morning."

"Yeah, my sympathies," the lawyer intoned with a monotone voice, clearly not effected, "but I was merely referring the situation."

She heaved a sigh. "I know." She paused a second, "But I wanted to ask you a few question."

His eyebrows clenched with suspicion. "I know, you already said it," he said in return, "What is it?"

She looked at him in the eyes. "What do you know about Bastard and Bubble Gum?" she asked, standing still and stiff in front of him, not moving an inch.

The man looked at her back in the same stance. "Saw them first at the party, left them in the East Harbor at Sunday," he answered, then his eyes narrowed further. "Why, what happened?"

She shook her head. "Nothing," she answered, "I'm just looking around. Have you ever heard anything about Elliot Caldwell?" she asked.

The man shook his head. She tried again. "Someone's called—Boy?"

He shook his head again in answer. "No. Who is he?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure," she answered truthfully, "What do you know about this Guy?"

The activist lawyer looked at her, bedazzled, like he didn't know what she was talking about. She almost rolled her eyes. "Please, Mr. Malkin," she said, "don't expect me to believe that you've never heard of him."

The baffled expression over his face vanished quickly after her words. "What do _you_ know about him?"

"I know he's playing with fire," she returned.

"There's always someone who would play with fire, detective," Malkin argued, walking to his desk, "Otherwise the whole humanity would have stayed in the darkness."

"It's more than playing with fire, you know it," she pressed further, shaking her head back at him. What he had said was true, but what she had said was true, too. This wasn't going to have a happy ending, though, she didn't know how they could stop it either. She thought Bruce would, that he would change the world, but now…everything was a mess.

The lawyer sat at his desk, his eyes carefully studying her. "I'm sorry, detective, but I'm missing the purpose of this conversation. What's exactly you want to talk about?"

For a moment, she really didn't have an answer. What was the purpose? Why she was here? It was a long shot, and she was blindly coursing through uncharted territories, turning over every stone in hopes that she would find something. She had promised. Even though she had her reserves with the fight, she still had trust in Bruce. "Have you ever heard anything Wayne Enterprises' Tabula Rasa program?" she asked.

Malkin nodded like she had expected, "Yes," but then he shook his head, "They will never let it."

"Why?" she asked with a frown.

"Because it actually might work," he said with a half shrug, leaning back in his seat, "You know I'm really not surprised for what happened. Do you know what our real problem is—?" the lawyer asked, "Apathy," then answered his own question, "our people forgot how to care."

* * *

Outside the building, she took out the slim recorder from her coat's pocket and pressed on the play button. "Apathy, our people forgot how to care," said Derrick Malkin's dispatched voice from the recorder. She frowned, looking at the device, trying to remember the voice she'd heard from the old radio. Could it be him? Somehow she didn't think he was, for all his cynical, bitter words, Malkin lacked something; the malice, the hostility she had felt until her bones listening to that voice.

No, she didn't think so, but she was still going to check it. Because she still _cared._ She guessed at the end this was why she wanted to help Bruce, because he'd reminded her how to care again. Their talk in Belfast flash in her mind, and the hurt she'd felt; _"I thought you don't care. You wanted to leave. Go. This is not your fight."_ But she had stayed. She had made it her own fight, because damn it all to hell and back, she cared.

She slipped the recorder back into her pocket, and started walking toward her car, and then at the opposite side of the vehicle, she saw them. Stopping, she swallowed a colorful curse, constricting herself with only a glare, at the homicide detectives waiting beside her car.

After the brief pause, she started walking to them. "What are you doing here?" she asked, and her eyes narrowed. "Were you following me?"

Detective Isley pretended she hadn't heard the last part. "Detective West, we'd like to ask you a few questions," she claimed, not neglecting to extend the olive branch with the entitlement.

"You could've simply called," she shot back, leaning over her Honda's door. The detectives didn't respond. They looked at each other in silence for a moment before she yielded, and asked, "What's it?"

"What's your connection to Mr. Wayne?" Detective Burke asked out of blue.

Her eyes snapped at him, widened. "I'm sorry-?"

The detective shrugged, and bounced his weight on his other feet. He was a large man. Like Bruce, he was six and three or so inches tall, had a broad chest, and long shoulders, but there was no gracefulness in his posture that Bruce effortlessly carried with himself. Instead the detective looked like a bull, a bull in a china shop, yet a bull that no person in his right mind would want to make mad. She shook her head, and tried a smile. "I'm sorry—" Her lips flattened painfully, "But—you're not making any sense."

He shrugged again. "Just being curious," he said, "Yesterday," he went on, "you—didn't seem like you just met."

"We met at his birthday party the night before," she paused for a second, and shook her head again, "I'm sorry but I'm still not following you."

"Okay, let us be clear then," Burke said in return, taking a step toward her, looking straight at her in the eyes. She held his gaze. "What we want to ask is why you're pretending you don't know Bruce Wayne—" Her gaze turned to a stare. What she'd heard…it wouldn't be correct, it certainly wouldn't, "—while having a relationship with him."

For a second or so, all she wanted to do was to scream, fire all of her frustration, desperation of the plight outside to the world. This was ridiculous. She pressed her lips tighter in order not to open her mouth.

Isley took her curt reaction in the different way, and started explaining. "Chief Bullock was at the party, too." Valerie turned to her, "Saw you dancing with Mr. Wayne, then sneaking away in a closet," the detective continued. Valerie closed her eyes, sucking in a silent breath. She _knew_ it was a bad idea, she just knew. "He didn't think of it before, but the way he reacted upon seeing you in the hospital, then it was as if you didn't see each other before."

"You must admit, dec," Burke continued when Isley stopped, "it looks—fishy."

Oh, yes, it did. Swallowing another scream, she started with the damage control. "It was just an one-time thing," she admitted.

Burke frowned. "Then why all the cloak and daggers?"

She looked at him, tilting her head. "Isn't it obvious enough?" she asked, not expecting any answer, "He's my boss. I work for him."

"Hmph," Burke snorted, "Apparently." His eyes turned toward the apartment behind her. "Did he send you after Derrick Malkin?"

"What?" she asked this time with real surprise, "No, I'm just—looking around."

Both detectives' eyebrows raised. "Our CEO died," she reminded them, "I'm obliged to investigate it."

"And you came to talk to Derrick Malkin?" Isley questioned, "You weren't sure yesterday if this was about what happened at Mr. Wayne's birthday party."

She finally let out a frustrated half groan. This was worse. If they started tailing her, she would do nothing. "I'm still not," she argued, "I'm just covering my bases."

The redhead detective nodded, and his partner followed after a long, dubious look at her. "Keep us posted, detective," he said, before they turned and walked away.

* * *

Back in the cave, she found Bruce hunching over the computers, running some ballistic tests. She opened her mouth, but before she questioned him, he turned to her. "Where have you been?" he asked.

"I went to see Derrick Malkin," she answered. A frown appeared above his eyebrows, "Thought he might know about Caldwell—or this Guy—" she explained, taking the recorder from her pocket. She put it on the bench. "We need to cross reference this with the voice from the radio."

Rising his eyebrow, Bruce pressed the play. Derrick Malkin's voice filled the cavern. "Apathy—" the activist intoned again, "Our people forgot how to care." His eyes narrowed, he looked at her. "You think Malkin is Guy?"

She shrugged. "I don't know," she said, and repeated what she'd told the homicide detectives, "I'm just covering my bases."

He nodded. "About Caldwell?" the question left from his mouth in a rasped hiss, "Does he know anything?"

She shook her head. "No."

Giving her another slight nod, he turned toward the computer hub, taking the recorder. "There is something else, too," she announced. His hand still on the device, his head snapped at her. "I saw homicide detectives from Chief Bullock's team in front of Malkin's house," she clarified, "They were waiting for me."

Another rasp, barely audible, "For what?"

She finally heaved the sigh she had been containing inside. "They—Bullock saw us at the party," she said, "They know about us. They wanted to know why we kept it secret."

Surprise for a second moved over his face, then his frown returned. "What did you say?"

"What I could say?" she retorted, irritation rising again, "I said it was one-time thing, and I don't want it in the open because you're my boss. They bought it, but Gordon—Gordon will hear about it, too." She paused. "He already suspects anyways," she said with a half shrug in her voice.

"I know."

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You do?"

"He's a smart man, Valerie. He can connect the dots."

"Yeah," she shrugged, and looked at the ballistic tests over the screen. There was a modeled empty bullet shell inside a diagram. So Bruce had been busy too when she was away. "What's this?" she asked, pointing the shell with her head.

"I checked the point of origin, and found an empty case," Bruce explained. She straightened in her seat. An empty shell from the crime scene. She turned to the screens again, and looked at the shell.

"What's it?" she questioned, ".45mm?"

Bruce shook his head. "7.62×51mm, a standard M40 sniper rifle cartridge."

"And you found it laying around?" The range they had calculated was more than one thousand yard, and why a pro like that would leave an empty case behind? It didn't make sense, unless—she sharply inhaled. "Did you check fingerprints?"

"Yes," Bruce answered clipped, as if he had read her thoughts, his eyes steel. "I found one."

She straightened further. The assassin, whoever he was, left them a bread crumble to follow. "I ran it through the databases," he continued, and pressed enter at the keyboard. The shell disappeared, leaving data logs in its place running along the black screen. She checked the logs. Iraq, Budapeste, Damascus, Rome…

It was a list of the cold cases with an unidentified fingerprint. "In the databases, I found the same fingerprint at the crime scenes from all over the world." The list went forever, she looked at the dates, it was going back to ten years ago until—she stopped, her eyes growing wide. The date—it was the night before. Bruce's birthday. And the location—

"Oh," she breathed out.

"Yes," Bruce said, looking at her, "Before he killed Fox, he killed a retired Major Crimes Unit officer in Gotham." He paused, turning back to the screen, "We were wrong, Valerie. This isn't just about us. It's more."


	17. Part V-II

**Part V. II – "Another Red Line"**

* * *

Soft, tender night had turned to cold, wind hurling against the windows, pale city lights shadowed behind the misted moon. The music in the dark wasn't gentle anymore. That benign melody that would lure you into sleep had turned to a sharp edged anthem. An anthem to the battle. Douglas Fredericks felt sad. His wife, his son, now his friend, too. Killed by a bullet. Such a cruel fate. His partner was right. There were always sacrifices in the battles.

His eyes found the man in front of him. This had to stop, and Douglas knew his partner could stop it. Everything he knew could be just a fragment of his imagination, a cruel butterfly's dream, but he believed in the man. He was going to change Gotham, was going to make her great again. Even if he couldn't believe anything in this life anymore, he could believe that. His passion was boundless, as his greed.

His back turned to him in front of the windows, legs apart, standing still like a statue, his partner questioned, "When the board will be called?" His voice was intense, and crisp, like the cold night.

Douglas walked to him, and stood in front of the window. His eyes swept over the city, the beautiful Gotham. "The next week," he replied, "The funeral is tomorrow. We can't delay it any longer."

"What's the board thinking?" he questioned further, "We need to be sure."

"I have the majority of votes," Douglas answered, "But—" he paused for a second. Deciding on a new chief executive officer was always a tiring business, especially in Wayne Enterprises. He remembered the last time, the attack in the night. He'd always suspected the mind behind the scheme was of Fox's, but there was something with the young Wayne, too. "It's wise to be careful with Wayne."

Froom aside, he saw a frown creep across his partner's face. "Wayne's a fool," he said in a hiss, "An infuriating, bold fool, but a fool nevertheless." He slightly turned aside and gave him a look. "But I thought he thinks of you as a friend."

"I _am_ his friend," Douglas said, stressing the present tense. He was a friend, like Fox was. He knew the boy's father, that visionary man. But times had changed. Fox had never understood that.

"Then you _must_ convince him that it's in everyone's best interests that you sit in that chair," the man retorted, the hidden meaning of his words clear, as his preference of the auxiliary verb for the command. His attention returning to the window, his partner watched the city for a while before he started talking again, heavy eyes fixed at outside, "The Act 1010 has to pass. We can't let childish notions such as Tabula Rasa get the better of us. Wayne has to see it, too."

"Then perhaps it'd have been more productive not to kill his best friend," he found himself voicing the words, like a sudden thought broke over his mind and took control of his motor skills. His partner sharply turned to him, his eyes narrowed. Then a second after his face loosened, and for a brief moment, his partner, the mighty Mayor of Gotham, looked as old as him.

"Fox was my friend, too, Douglas," Rupert Elliot said with a touch of sadness, "I knew him for a long time, but he never understood it. Look at us," he continued, turning to the window again, "Look at what they've made us."

Conspirators, traitors, killers in the cold blood. He remembered that man's eyes, that intense tilted eyes that had death inside. His own eyes had the same tilt now? He heaved a sigh. The night was silent now, no music heard, neither the sweet tempting devil's lullaby nor the anthem for the battle. "Such brutality," he said in a low voice, "Was it really necessary, Rupert?" he asked. Because he felt it wasn't, still, despite everything.

"This's the harsh times," his partner said, "I wish he couldn't do it either, or at least dealt with it with more tact," he confessed, a slight bitter irony condemning his voice, "but we had to give them a message, for they insist to miss it, refusing to acknowledge its existence."

"And what's it?" Douglas asked.

"War," he bellowed, raising his hands in the air, as he was on the aisle again, like he was one of the great commanders of the old times, that great posture, power radiating out of him. He turned to Douglas, and held him tight on the shoulders. "There's a battle here that they refuse to see. They believe being philanthropic would help." A derisive contempt thinned his voice, "Being benevolent, altruistic is going to stop it while good people keep dying." He dropped his hands off his shoulder, shaking his head, "I'm going stop it. I'm going to make Gotham the way it was used to be before. Great," he repeated his campaign slogan, but for the first time in a long time, the words didn't bring to Douglas the same faith they had always traversed.

Douglas shook his head. "What about that man?" he asked in return, remembering the eyes that held revenge and death, "You gave him the list. He won't stop now."

Then his partner did something he least expected from the man; with a half-quirk of lips, he crooked a smile. "I'm depending on it," he said, "It's the darkest before the dawn, my friend, and the dawn is coming." His attention returned to outside again, "We just need more dark now."

Then suddenly it all made sense; the oldest scheme. Through the darkness, they reached to the light. Looking back at his partner, the old man smiled back, too, as in the silence, the music began again.

* * *

Before the midnight, Bruce prepared to leave the cave. His work station was full with researches; the photos from the crime scenes, the details of the locations, and the last victim of the contract killer. The retired MCU's officer's name was Richard Atkins. He was a widow of fifty-seven years, with two children. His children had just buried their father yesterday. Valerie had already started a background check, but nothing seemed out of police. The man had retired ten years ago, with a good service report. As his first thought, Bruce had looked for mob connections, but there was nothing, which made him even more cautious.

A dead officer, retired or not, always bound to get some attention, especially in the way it had happened; two shots at abdomen, and third at the head. Not just a basic murder, but a clear execution, so why the files had it a mugging went bad? That was the question. After a quick search, Bruce had noticed the pattern at the most of the crime scenes. The three shots were like a personal signature for the man who was after. He crosschecked it through the known serial killers in the different databases, but once again there was nothing.

Looking at the screens, he frowned. There had to be something. He knew there was. The pattern…it seemed vaguely familiar. As his eyebrows clenched further, he heard the faint rumble of the construction lift. Even before the lift arrived to the base, Bruce knew who was his visitor.

Valerie exited out of the lift a second after. Bruce turned aside, and looked at her as she walked toward him. She was still clad in her coat, even down to her gloves. Seeing her like this was…strange. During the last weeks she had been a constant part of his house, his room, his bed. He hadn't been getting any sleep since this weekend, but the bed was even stranger without her. After the homicide detectives had learned their supposedly one-night stand, Valerie had decided to return to Sundale Hotel. His first inclination was to refuse, even the thought of her alone in the hotel was too much to take, but at the second, he had conceded. She couldn't stay here any longer. They couldn't risk it, not when this turned to a deadly game. The notion still had his jaw clenched, his eyebrows tightened, but he knew she could take care of herself.

Valerie took out her coat along with her gloves and threw them off the stool next to his, her eyes sweeping over his research, then focused on his leather jacket. "Going out?" she asked, leaning back the workbench, an objection already at the tip of her tongue, but still keeping her tone neutral, as she knew what the leather jacket meant. No suit. He was _behaving_.

He stood up, nodding curtly. "I was waiting for you," he said, "I have to see Gordon, give him the bullet." He paused, taking the jacket, his eyes leveling up towards her. "And we need to talk about the homicide detectives. He needs to keep them off your trail."

In her eyes there was suspicion. "So you're gonna talk to him?" she asked skeptically, running her eyes away.

"What else do you prefer?" Bruce asked in return, "your every move being monitored by the police?"

She heaved a sigh. "This's ridiculous," she mumbled, "Our secret-keeper is the Commissioner."

His eyes narrowed. "He's been always a friend." His voice sounded like a rasp. Her head snapped back at him. They stared at each other for a moment in silence, the air heavy with the words left unsaid. Bruce wanted to say them, but he wasn't sure how to speak. "Have you checked Derrick Malkin's voice?" so he asked instead, wearing his jacket, "Did they correspond?"

Valerie shook her head. "No," she said, letting out another sigh, "I'd be surprised if it was," she murmured again under her breath.

He could easily agree on that. Their eyes met for a second, and a half, rueful smile broke over his lips. "That'd be too easy for us."

Looking at him, she reflected his smile back, and for a moment, the world stopped again. The familiarity of the scene was oddly recognizable, the way his lips found a way to tilt upwards even before he understood what he was doing, and that moment Bruce knew with a crystal clarity that he unconditionally loved the woman standing in front of him, because she was the only person in the whole world who could bring that reaction out of him, even without trying it.

He walked to her closer, and gently touched her cheek with his right hand. His gesture took her by surprise, he could see it the way her eyes skidded at him, looking at him in question. The look constricted something in his chest, as he recalled the way she had been sleeping in the hotel facing the doors, her hand inched toward her cushion. He wondered, alone, she had slept last night like that again. He didn't know, because he hadn't checked. A strong wave of pain and shame hit him, bringing more pain than any blow to his body. How he'd turned to this? How he had let this happen to them? Another failure, another defeat.

No!

Not anymore. He'd failed enough, no more. He took a step closer her, his palm flattening over her cheek. "Stay here until I return," he told her in a deep rasp.

In answer, this time she smiled an open, full smile, leaning against his touch further, and for a moment, just for a moment, it was enough to make him believe that everything was going to be okay.

* * *

His ear was in silence. He wasn't exactly sure how this talk would go, so he decided to keep her out. He was surely going to hear about it, but it was okay. It was the way they—communicated. He zipped up his jacket before he called Gordon outside. In the old ways. One part of him was still wishing to have at least his balaclava, being this open with the older man was odd, but this talk was long overdue. And there would be no secrets out. His face settling, he lightly tipped the back window, standing stone still, half of his body covered in the shadows. Even with his civil clothes, and open face the pose was still familiar, so much that coming out to the back porch, Gordon's steps hesitated for a split of second before he turned aside to close the door, and looked at him back.

There were many things hidden in the older man's gaze, but he didn't say anything, and Bruce appreciated it. "Gordon," he greeted him instead with a little tip of his head.

The Commissioner leaned over the back door, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, I was wondering when you'd come—" he said in return, then paused a little before he amended, "if you'd come."

His eyebrows immediately clenched, but he didn't respond. "I talked with Bullock yesterday," the older man continued. His face completely closed off. He knew they were going to talk about it, this—this was too early, and he preferred to have that talk on his own terms.

He stretched his hand out and opened his palm up. The empty shell flashed murkily inside the plastic bag. Gordon looked at it. "What's it?" he asked.

"Yesterday I calculated a possible point of origin for the assassin's lair and found this," Bruce explained as Gordon took it.

"We found it today," he said, frowning, and Bruce nodded. "You shouldn't have taken it," he added, lifting his head at him, his tone this time-scolding. He fought with a scowl threating to settling over his lips. He wondered if the older man would have used it against Batman. Probably not. Batman was a figure of mystery and smoke and cloaks whereas Bruce Wayne was someone he knew until his love life. His lips tightened.

"He left it behind," he said, forcing his mind away from the thought, "There is a fingerprint." Gordon's eyebrows rose, looking at him, "I ran it through the databases, found many crime scenes across the world with this fingerprint, no name attached." He looked at the Commissioner. "The last here in Gotham," he announced unceremoniously, "A retired MCU's officer. Richard Atkins. Killed this weekend, two shot in his abdomen, one directly to his head."

Gordon's eyes widened. He also understood it was an executing style. "Did you hear about it?" he questioned.

Gordon shook his head. "I heard a retired officer was shot during a mugging," he answered.

"It wasn't a mugging, Gordon," Bruce said, his voice straining. It was all too familiar how a simple mugging turned worse, he had survived it. He recalled the way Chill shot his mother, the pearls falling down, blooding coloring ivory and his parents dropping with them. His lips tightened further. "Someone had covered it up," he continued, and somehow added, "Something's happening."

Bruce didn't like the look the older man gave him. For a second, Gordon nodded. "I'll look into it," Gordon said, the plastic bag disappearing in his pocket. An uneased silence befell between them. Gordon looked like he half expected him to do his usual trick and be lost in the shadows, and Bruce almost did it, but they couldn't linger that talk any longer. So he checked his wireless connection, made sure Valerie wasn't at the other side, and asked, "What did Bullock tell you?"

Gordon breathed out a sigh, old and tired. "The way you reacted seeing Detective West in the hospital," he started, "it'd raised a few eyebrows." He stopped, and looked at him in expectation. Bruce kept his silence. Heaving out another sigh, Gordon nodded. "Okay," he muttered, "He saw you and West together in the party. His kids talked to the detective yesterday, and she claimed it was just one-time-thing." His eyes lifted at his for a second, "But you probably already knew it."

Bruce still kept his silence, his scowl growing tighter and tighter with each word. "They believed it," Gordon said, almost as if to cool him down.

"And you?" he asked in a whisper.

Gordon smiled humorlessly. "Son, you're not the one who'd have some on the sides," he mumbled, and added under his breath, "I'm still trying to believe you have some in the middle." In silence, Bruce merely looked at him. Gordon sighed another time, and looked back at him. "Is it her, isn't it?"

Like many times, his silence was the answer. "How?" Gordon whispered, then shook his head, "Those faint scars across her neck—we couldn't understand them, thought it was from a facelift—Oh." With, the subtle exclaimed the commissioner answered his own inquiry, but then a questioning glint appeared in his eyes, as if he remembered something. "How did you manage her with her old face in the morgue?" he asked.

"A skin mask," Bruce answered in a clipped tone. That night was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

Gordon understood it very well. "Well, that explains why she looks familiar, I suppose," he muttered. There was a brief pause between them before Gordon suddenly started laughing silently.

Bruce's expression tightened even more. "She took out her shoes when she took down those idiots at your party. I remember it," Gordon said.

Bruce looked at the man skeptically. He wondered if he'd fed up too much of shit to the older man, and he finally snapped up. All things considered, Bruce wouldn't really be surprised at it. His laugh became harder. "Gordon?" Bruce rasped out, taking a few steps closer.

The man shook his head. "Sorry, for a moment it just seemed—absurd."

His jaw clenched. Did he just call his love life—absurd? He knew it wasn't the sanest one, but absurd…Gordon shook his hand as if to correct his thoughts. "No—no, not that. It's just that whenever she's about to kick some ass, she takes off her shoes. She did it before when I found her in the bathroom too."

"She's tactical," Bruce deadpanned, staring at him motionlessly.

Gordon's laughing stopped abruptly, and he returned his look. "Yes, she's," he said in a low voice. They stared at each other for a second, heavy eyes searching, and what Bruce saw in the other man's eyes made him alert, concerned. "I hope you know you're doing, son," Gordon said at last, shaking his head.

"I trust her." The words left his mouth automatically, without hesitance.

Gordon nodded. "I know. I know you love her, too. We—Fox and I—we talked at your birthday party when he brought me to your study." Bruce's eyes narrowed for a fraction. Gordon continued, "He'd said she's come good to you. I didn't understand it then, but I understand now. I can see it now. She's made you more—like—a man."

Bruce let out a silent hiss of breath. "But you're not _just_ a man. You want to be more than a man," he continued, his eyes turning around, ahead of his house, where there was no light or sound anymore. Once there had been, before he had dragged him into his life, there had been children rows, light pouring out of every window. Now it looked like a death house. Gordon returned to him again, and the man he saw in front of him looked really old, tired to bone.

"I—I tried," he found himself saying. He had, he really had…

Gordon nodded, as if he'd been there when he was defeated. Their first kiss in the cave flashed in his mind momentarily. "I know you did," Gordon said, "Just be careful. If they learn about her—" he didn't deliberate "they" because he couldn't. There was no specific "they"; no certain, visible enemy that he could fight with. There were just shadows in the dark, counting for their time. "If they learn about her," Gordon repeated, "she's going to be your downfall. Then all would be lost."

* * *

During the way back to the manor, Bruce tried not to think hard on what Gordon had said, for his own sanity. That wasn't him, letting thing go, riding over the waves was Valerie. He analyzed every situation critically, planned for every situation meticulously. This was the first time he was caught unprepared, without a possible way out. What was more frightened even now, when he was desperately feeling the outcome of his decisions, he wanted to see her, he wanted to take her in his embrace, he wanted to make love to her, go to that place where there were only two of them, and no one else. Was it selfish? He didn't know. He wanted to be selfish. When it came to her, he wanted to be selfish. If he wasn't, he would have never gone after her at the first place. _I'm not unselfish, Valerie. I've come here for my own selfish reasons._

He shut off the voices in his mind, and entered to the manor. Alfred met him at the main door. "Sir," he greeted him, taking his jacket.

"Valerie—" Bruce asked, "Is she still here?"

Alfred nodded. "Yes," he answered, "She—got agitated when she understood you didn't connect her, but she stayed for your return."

Possibly to bite his head off. He nodded. He walked to the dinner room and went to the cave. When she saw her, she jumped down from her stool, taking her coat, and marched toward him. Bruce heaved a silent sigh. He had been prepared for it. "Valerie—" he said, watching her, "Valerie, sit down."

"Shut up," she said in return, taking his hand at the wrist, and dragging him to the elevator.

"Valerie," Bruce repeated, an edge entering into his voice.

She stopped in front of the lift. "It's not about you, idiot," she said, huffing out, "It's Derrick Malkin."

Bruce's eyebrows tightened. Why she'd become this—focused at the activist, he wasn't sure. "What about him?" he asked with a rasp, "I thought the voices didn't match."

She shook her head. "He lied," she bit off, "He lied about Boy. He knows him."

Suddenly all thoughts and preoccupation left his mind. "What?"

She nodded knowingly. "I was searching his background. Before he was resigned, he used to work in DA's office. And his last case—it was Elliot Cadwell's. Three years ago, he tried to open the case, then dropped it off a year later, and left the DA office too."

His face settled. He pulled his hand back. He turned around and started walking to the vault.

"Bruce—" Valerie called behind him. Bruce looked at his armor. There it was, another red line he was crossing over, another no safe returns. "Bruce," Valerie called again.

Without a word, Bruce opened the vault, and took out his cowl.

* * *

 _Uh-huh, Batman is back in the town! What that means for our heroes, we'll see. As you see, things aren't going well for them. I really waited for this talk between Bruce and Gordon for a long time, Bruce confessing "he tried not to fall in love" because Gordon is possibly the only person who could understand him truly. It was sad, but well, fun to write ;)_

 _I hope you like Derrick Malkin, because that was a little bit jealousy there at the end, because there will be more of it soon! Heh. We've seen a jealous!Valerie, but not jealous!Bruce yet. ;)_

 _I hope to update soon, we'll see. In the meantime, don't forget to review. Thanks._


	18. Part V-III

**Part V. III – Wrath**

* * *

After the weeks that had passed with inactivity, the weight of his armor was heavy but Bruce welcomed it. It reminded him who he was, what he'd chosen to be; an anchor to his reality, like something finally clicked. He'd too long stayed on the sides, too long. He'd realized it with a perfect clarity as soon as Batman took his first step outside the cave, into the city, soaring in the dark sky.

Landing perched on the fire escape ladder, Batman pulled up, turning off his trajectory finder, and took his bino from his utility belt. Derrick Malkin's apartment was in four stories building that stood at the corner of the street. Turning aside, he studied the activist lawyer's level.

The house was dark, no movements inside. Good. He was going to have the surprise element better than the alternative. He spotted the window. Jumping from the landing of the fire escape, he slid the window open with his electronic card, and slipped inside the house.

Then he waited at the corner, engulfed in the shadows.

Oddly enough, the first time after the weeks, there was no preoccupation or worry in him, his mind perfectly clear and focused. Anger was still there, steaming just under his skin, but he embraced it willingly, for being Batman meant being angry. And he _was_ angry.

Unluckily for him, Derrick Malkin walked into his house just at that moment.

Before the lawyer could turn on lights, Bruce caught him at his neck, and threw him at the corner at the opposite side. Malkin let out a grunt with a muffled scream, tumbling over the floor. At the corner, he crouched, lifting his head, and searched the darkness with narrowed eyes to see his attacker. "Who are you?" he yelled through constringed throat.

Batman stepped out in hazy projection of street lights. His back turned to it, he knew he looked tremendous, a dark figure surrounded by darkness, only lightened with the fade, misty light. A figure from nightmares.

The response was satisfying. His eyes widened, the activist lawyer pulled back further to the corner. Inwardly, he smirked. "Elliot Caldwell," he rasped, hovering above him, "Who is he?"

Malkin's eyes widened further, this time for different reasons. "Wh—what?" he stammered the word, then his eyes found his behind the cowl. "They sent you?" he asked in a whisper, then vigorously shook his head immediately, "No—no—it isn't their style."

Bruce took a step forward to him, his posture becoming more threating as his anger grew worse. "Whose style?" he yelled in a deep rasp, "Who are they?"

The lawyer only shook his head. Bruce caught the man from the floor at his jacket's collars, and dragged him up to his feet. "You lied to Detective West yesterday," he grunted at his face, "Why?"

"Because she was asking dangerous questions," the lawyer answered between rough breaths, "She looks like a good person. I like her." The way he uttered the last sentence made Bruce involuntarily tighten his grip. The man coughed more. "But even though I didn't, I wouldn't say anything…"

"Why?"

The man forced out a broken laugh through his grip. "She looks good but I'm not going to trust that," he rushed out, "I wouldn't talk to someone I barely know."

Batman pulled him closer to his face, "You _will_ talk to me!" He threw the man down again at the corner.

Sitting crouched at the wall, the man nodded, muttering, "You asked." Then he lifted his head. "If you know about Caldwell, you must know that his family was murdered twenty-four years ago?" the lawyer asked to confirm. Bruce gave a strict half nod. "The files had it a gang-war went wrong, but three years I'd noticed some irregularities because of one of my other cold case files. I'd searched it, but the facts weren't adding up. What kind of gang-war would have killed a five years old and no one would never make a case of it?" The lawyer's eyes took a different look, one eyebrow half-raised. His shock had passed, despite his bedraggled figure, he now looked like the aloof, cool man he had seen talking with Valerie.

Standing above him still, Bruce only looked at him back in silence. The lawyer continued, "I started searching, and I was right something was amiss." He paused for a second, then declared, "It wasn't a gang war, but a raid by the major crimes unit—" As soon as the words left Malkin's mouth, Bruce remembered the retired MCU's officer that had been killed, "They covered it up."

"Why?" Bruce rasped out, even though he already knew the answer.

"I don't know what happened exactly," Malkin answered, his tone accompanying a weariness, "His father was a whistler for MCU, they thought of raiding the gang but got it wrong. They killed his family instead, apart from Caldwell." At the same night, his parents had died, Bruce added in his mind. What kind of twisted fate was that? He always knew who to blame for his parents' murder, but what happened to that man… How a child would cope that?

His lips turned into a grimace, and he snuffed out the thought, with ease of the years long ascetics. Despite his history, the man was a cold-blood murderer who killed for money. "Why did you drop the case?" he asked, turning his attention to the man in front of him.

Malkin shot out a laugh, curt and derisive, and he knew immediately the truth went deeper than what he'd confessed. "I _didn't_ ," he answered, standing up, "It was just after the Joker. Gotham wouldn't take another hit after that, so they killed the case, and forced me to resign."

Bruce took another step closer. They… The police… Gordon… He wouldn't be involved. He would never hide something like this, never. "Who?" he yelled at the man.

The man got closer to him, too. "They—do you need to name them? Everyone. They never want to disturb their comfort zone. Who cares what happened to a low-case criminal's family?"

Bruce remembered his words from Valerie's recording. _They forgot how to care._ Bruce wanted to oppose him, wanted to say there was still good people in Gotham, there was still hope, but something held his tongue, no words leaving his mouth. With each step he took, with each struggle, he felt Gotham he wanted to achieve broke away more. "What happened to Caldwell?" he questioned, once again silencing he dubious voices in his head, and a maniac laughter above everything else.

"He—he got lost," Malkin said, taking a step backward, as if to put some distance between the darkness surrounded him and himself, the wearing in his voice more palpable now, "I tracked his trail until ten years ago—then—it was lost."

He remembered the janitor's words Valerie had found out. It was all corresponding, pieces filling into its pieces, but only… No—No—Fox couldn't be a part of this. He was a good man, his friend—He turned around, and was about to vanish into the dark, but Malkin's voice stopped him.

"I don't know how you learned about our conversation," he called after his back, "But tell West to stay away. This's not something she should get involved."

In answer, Bruce jumped out of the window.

At the rooftop, he stood still, looking at Gotham that lay under his feet. Some many had sacrificed for it, so many good people had died for it. He pressed in his ear. "Valerie," he called in, but the voice that answered wasn't hers.

"Sir," Alfred replied.

His eyebrows clenched at the instant. "Where is Valerie?" he questioned. It was unlikely that she would leave the cave when he donned his cape. Very, very unlikely, unless… "Alfred, what happened?" he rasped out.

"Gordon called," his once-guardian answered, "He—he's struck again. Another retired police officer." Bruce let out a hiss, as Alfred paused momentarily, before he concluded, "Miss Valerie went to the crime scene."

With a low growl, Bruce ordered, "Send me the coordinates," before he dived into the sky.

Unbeknownst him, a figure across the street took a photo of him, then nudged two other figure beside him, before they became lost in the darkness, too.

* * *

Her nails made rhythmic tic-tocks as she drummed them on the metal workbench continuously, her insides felt like coiled into a tight ball of steel. She supposed that was what happened when you lived the days in the constant upsetting worry, annoyance, and restlessness. She was worried no more, though. Now, more than anything, she was angry. Bruce was right, he knew himself too well. He was a selfish son of a bitch.

Not only he just took the cowl, and went to question Derrick Malkin, despite how dangerous it was for both of them, but he also hadn't even the courtesy of letting her listen their discussion. The second time in the same night, he shut her off.

He was so sure that she was going to behave; Valerie being the good girl; always staying behind, safely in his protected castle, only worrying after his knight like a common, brainless damsel in the distress.

Fuck it. How did she let happen to her? How would she let him do that to her? Her fingers stopping, she slapped her hand on the workbench, hard. With the heavy slap, Alfred's attentions snapped at her.

"Miss?" the older man questioned.

She shook her head dismissively, taking her hand over her lap. "I'm fine," she forced out. She opened up the crime scene folder at the screen and looked at the body found out in the dead alley. Bruce had mentioned a pattern; two shots in the abdomen and one directly at the head. Bruce was particularly stressed over it, more than for his standards, and she trusted the damn man's instincts.

But he was right. She had seen it before somewhere else, only she couldn't remember it. She knew the contract killers had their own personal insignias, something that would made them a name, something only a few selected people would recognize it, given the chance. For a moment or so, she thought of getting Jason contact to their old partner, Jeremy. The best hacker and deal broker that money would buy for would certainly find an answer for that mystery. And that would teach Bruce a few lessons, too. She'd been a good girl far too long.

Inwardly, she heaved up a sigh, and chase the thought. It would have been tremendously dangerous, and it was unlikely that Jeremy would have discovered something Bruce couldn't have. People didn't call him the world's greatest detective without a reason, after all.

As she snickered low in her throat, Bruce's phone squalled. She read Gordon's name over the screen. Her eyebrows raised. The Commissioner usually just sent him short messages via their encrypted phones when he wanted to make a contact. But that was apparently had changed after tonight. She wondered what they had talked about that had the older man calling him on his private phone.

She answered it. "Gordon."

There was a brief pause over the other side, as Gordon understood who had answered his call. "Uh—hello," he said a second later, "I wanted to talk with Mr. Wayne."

"Not here now," she replied simply, "He went _out_ —" the last word came out in a hiss.

"As in—?"

"Yes," she hissed again.

"Oh." The older man breathed out.

"What's happened?" she asked then, "What's the problem?"

Again a pause. Valerie understood something was wrong at the instant. "We found another body," Gordon said slowly, "He's struck again."

For a few seconds, she was silent. So it had happened. Somehow she expected it to continue, as Bruce had said, whatever it was, it was "more" than just a CEO murder, but she never thought it would come this fast. Then she nodded. "I'm coming up, send me your location."

She closed the phone, and jumped down from the stool. She started walking to the lift. "Miss Valerie!" Alfred called after her.

"Saved it, Alfred," she called back without turning back, "I'm going."

"He won't like it, miss," Alfred said in return as she stepped into the lift.

She turned around. "Tell him I'm doing what he does," she said before the doors closed, "I'm doing my job."

Behind the closed doors, she nodded at herself. Yes, she was Valerie West, private detective, and she was going to do her job. Damn her if she let any _man_ stand in her way, even the one she loved.

The drive to the crime scene passed with relative ease. She half expected a dark figure suddenly appeared in the road, and demanded to know what the hell she was doing, but Batman apparently was busy somewhere else. Good grief.

Even before she arrived to the scene, she noticed the tale-tell signs of a newly police investigation scene, the chaos and panic as the police tried to set up perimeters. More than a dozen uniformed police officers were placing the yellow police band, as a CSI units had started collecting samples. At the other side of the street, she saw the dark coroner's van.

Breathing in deeply, she started walking toward the cluster of the people who stood next to the coroner van. She'd spotted Gordon standing a few feet away from them, watching the preparations with unreadable expression over his face.

As he saw her walking toward him, his eyes narrowed a bit tighter, but other than that, he maintained his position. "Gordon," she nodded at him in greeting.

He nodded back. "Miss—" He faltered for a second, looking at her skeptically, as if he didn't know what to call her.

"Detective West would be enough," she said.

Nodding, he adjusted, "Detective." He looked at her again, with that look, then his eyes swept around them before turning back to her. "This is very weird."

She breathed out a laugh. "You're telling me?" She shook her head. "Look, I know this's—awkward, but I mean nothing but best," she tried to reassure.

"I know," Gordon said in return, "I trust him. But-" He paused again, looking at her, "What are you doing here, I don't understand."

She let out a sigh this time. "I'm doing my job," she shot back, and muttered under her breath, "Why it's so shocking?"

Unfortunately, Gordon heard that part as well. "Well, you don't have a good history with the police, detective."

She threw at him a glare. Gordon narrowed his eyes further. "He doesn't know, does he?" he said with a sigh. "He doesn't know you're here."

"I don't need to give him report of my doings, thank you very much," she hissed, and pointed with her head. "Who is he? Did you find out?"

His face souring, Gordon nodded. "Ronald Gore, a retired MCU officer. Dead in the same way; two shots at the abdomen, one in the head."

Valerie heaved up a sigh. "His signature," she said. "Is there a connection to Richard Atkins?" she questioned further. Life was odd, there she was, former con-artist and thief, interrogating a police commissioner. All thanks to Bruce Wayne.

"They served in the same for a time, but my people look for deeper connection."

"There must be a connection to Elliot Caldwell," she murmured, looking around.

"Who is this Elliot Caldwell?" Gordon asked, "he mentioned it, too."

"That's why we're trying to figure out, commissioner," she said back, "They're all connected, but his trails only went ten years ago. After then…" she made a gesture with her hands, "Phfft. It's like that he died…"

Gordon opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a baritone voice heard from her behind. "What the hell she's doing here, commish?"

Even before she turned around, Valerie recognized the tone. Detective Burke. Oh joy. She turned on her heels, and flashed a terse smile at the detective walking to them. As if it was norm, Burke was accompanied with his partner, Detective Isley. "Hello, detectives," she greeted with a voice she hoped sounding civil. She had no desires to get into a verbal fight with the duo.

"She came to see the crime scene," Gordon explained.

"I can see that," Burke said with a glare at her, "How did you find about it?" he asked to her.

She returned the look. So much for civility. "We heard about the bullet you found," she answered, hiding the sniff in her tone. The bullet _they_ had found. Only the detectives wouldn't know that.

"How?" Burke asked.

"I have my resources," she said with a shrug. She turned to Gordon, "As I was just saying to the commissioner, we have nothing but our best interest," she said, going with the plural. "My employer wants to get the bottom of this as soon as possible and find who's responsible."

Burke gave her a smile. "You mean, your lover?"

Her lips flattened. "I told you," she hissed, as Gordon looked at her, "he's not my lover."

"Yeah, sorry, I forgot," the detective returned, his smile enlarging. "It was an one-time-thing."

"Burke—" her partner next to him told her, as Gordon cut between in them. "That's enough, go control the witnesses. I want to know if there's someone who saw something. Detective here would leave immediately."

She snapped at him as the other detectives left. "I'm not going anywhere. You can't send me away."

Gordon raised his eyebrow. "Can't I?" he asked, "This's a crime scene."

"And I'm a full badged private detective, who is involved with the case. It's in my rights to conduct an investigation."

Gordon took a step toward, his face now carrying a frustrated look. She stayed motionless. She'd played this dance far too long to back down from a getting-pissed-off commissioner. "Not when there is already a police investigation."

"It's all about where you look from," she retorted, "You can get a warrant and keep me away from the crime scene, but until then I'm allowed." She quirked a smile. "I know my rights, Commissioner. I used to pretend to be lawyer, you know."

His eyes bore through hers. "Not very hard for a con-artist, I suspect."

"It's all part of the game," she shot back.

"This isn't a game," Gordon returned gravely.

Her face sobered too. "I know," she said seriously, "This's why I'm here. I want to help." His look grew heavier; searching, probing. She didn't run her eyes away, but kept them. She was tired of pretending. "This's getting more complicated each day. At first, we just thought it's the board's doing, but it's more," she started speaking, words suddenly pouring out of her, words she'd wanted to talk to Bruce, but couldn't. "These guys were clearly executed, for something happened in the past. They're all connected. Bruce doesn't want to acknowledged that, that Fox would be part of it, too."

For a while, Gordon stayed in silence, then shook his head. "No," he said, "Fox was killed with sniper rifle, but these people were gunned down at close range. Fox's murder was sterile, not personal, but these—" He gestured with his head, "These are personal. The perpetrator wanted to look at their eyes."

She looked at him skeptically. "So what?" she asked, "It's just a coincidence."

"No—" Gordon said with the same heaviness, "Not a coincidence, either."

She heaved a sigh. "Then—" she started but she couldn't finish, because something caught her at her jacket's collar, then suddenly she was hoisted up, a scream in her throat, before she landed on the rooftop.

She raised her head and looked at—Batman hovering above him, his eyes alight, his posture looked like he wanted to kick her ass from dusk till dawn. She staggered up on her feet. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked, peering below the street.

Gordon was still standing still, as if cast off stone, but others continued as if nothing changed. After a second, Gordon regained his senses, and started walking away. "What the hell are _you_ doing?" Bruce asked, walking to her closer, his voice nothing more than a deep rasp.

She held out the scream at the last moment. "I'm trying to do my job," she bit off the third time in the same night, "Why everyone is asking me this?"

"You shouldn't be here," Bruce rasped.

She looked at him like he'd gone mad. " _I_ shouldn't be here?" she repeated back, and shook her head frustrated. "Look around, _Batman_ ," she hissed, "We're circled by at least twenty police officers who had a kill order at first sight for you! If there's someone who shouldn't be here, it's not me, but you!"

His eyes behind the cowl glinted with a steely look. She walked to him. "Look, I know you're angry," she started, but he cut her off, taking a step closer.

"I'm beyond angry."

Then she lost it, she really did. She quickly closed up the distance between them, and shouted at his face. "I AM enraged!"

At her exclamation, Bruce—Batman took a step back. She heaved out deep breaths, trying to cool herself. Her voice wouldn't be heard down, but it still boomed in the air. "I—" she said, "I—I watched him die, Bruce," she spoke then in a low voice, bowing her head, "I held him in my arms." Tears pricked in her eyes. "We—we've never been close, yes, and, and I never liked him, not really, but still—" She shook her head, lifting her eyes up at him, "I want to catch that bastard as much as you do. But you're pretending like I'm not involved."

"You're involved," Bruce said, his voice finally sounding a bit closer to the man she loved, "But this isn't the way to help. You're jeopardizing yourself."

She sniffed. "You're the last person on earth who would lecture me about that."

His eyes lightened again with that look, and he reached out to her, but before he could grab her, she stepped out of his reach. "What did you talk with Derrick?" she asked, "Why he'd lied?"

A veil shadowed his eyes. "He wanted to protect you," he stated in a rough breath.

"What?"

Using the distraction, he caught her. "He likes you," he rasped out, his eyes fixed at her.

"Oh, this's low, Bats, even for you," she said, trying to free herself, "What did you talk about?"

Bruce gave her a look. "I'm serious," he said, "He likes you."

Her hand hesitated. "Uh." Bruce looped a harness through her belt. She grew out of her stupor. "Okay—what's that he was trying to protect me then? And will you stop this?" She tried to pull the harness. Bruce's grip tightened.

"We're going to talk about _it_ later." There was something in the way he'd said it…some vagueness, some danger. A chill ran over her back.

She stopped once again, and looked at him. "What happened, Bruce? What did Derrick tell?"

"Caldwell's parents—" he rasped, "They're not killed in a gang war. Years ago, a raid of the police went wrong."

She sharply exhaled, pieces falling in its pieces. She looked down, her eyes finding the white figure on the asphalt drawn with chalk. "And he's returned to revenge their deaths," she muttered. They looked at each other at the same time. "Bruce—" she said, "Fox—"

He cut her off, "I know." The graveness of his voice ran through her heart like a knife. Both knew of it. Bruce wasn't blinded as she had suspected of.

She raised her arms and wrapped them around his armored neck. "Let's go home," she whispered, hiding her head over his chest. Under her bowed head, she couldn't see but feel his gaze on her. She heard the memory cloth's distinctive sound as it energized a second later. Bruce prepared to jump, but the leap didn't come. She raised her head, and looked at him. His cape de-energized, his look was directed at below, two slowly approaching figure—

No. No. No. It couldn't, this couldn't be happening. Yet, the DHS agents, Floyd Lawton and Mercy Graves kept walking toward Gordon. Pulling hastily from her, Bruce took out his phone from his utility belt, and wired into the commissioners'.

"Commissioner," Lawton said through the phone, "Please tell your men withdraw. Homeland Security is overtaking this investigation." Valerie saw his red-head partner gave the older man an envelope.

Gordon took the official letter. "What's this?" he asked furiously, "It's in my jurisdiction."

"It's national security, sir," Mercy intoned monotonously, "Everything you need to know is already in the letter."

Then another lost piece of the puzzle clicked in her mind. The files for DHS agents! She clutched Bruce's gauntlets. "I found it," she whispered. "I remembered." His eyes skipped toward her. She walked in on him. "The files we found for DHS agents… The black ops team called Argent… It was there; two shots in the abdomen, one directly at the head, his signature." She let out a breath. She couldn't believe they'd looked over it. "They were teammates. His codename was—"

His face turned to stone, as he concluded, "Wrath."

* * *

Across the street, another lone figure stood at another rooftop, watching the scene, a small smile playing over his lips.

* * *

A few miles across from them, Bubble Gum, Bastard Dan, and Bottlecup crouched over a circle, listening to the voice from the old radio. "Brothers, sisters, do you hear it?" he asked with a deeply sorrowful voice, hinting the shape of things to come, "A wrath's stirring among us. The sins of past are resurfacing. This time they will answer for it. Look at the sky, and watch for the sign. Do they ask you why we're hiding?" A pause, and a laugh, before the voice boom across the circle, "Tell them we're not hiding! Tell them we are _becoming_!"

* * *

 _All right, finally we came to this part too. I'm tying up the plot ties to each other, but if you catch something not fitting in, please let me know._

 _\- we're not hiding, we're becoming, is an alternation of one Batman's quote; about his hiding behind his mask; "I'm not hiding, I'm becoming." I think it perfectly sums up Bruce's mentality, as well._

 _\- Mercy Graves isn't exactly the Mercy Graves we knew from the comics, or animated series, but I like her character much, so wanted to use her in some extent here, too. First I'd codenamed her as Mercy, her real name being Monica, but I decided a few weeks ago, she should be just Mercy Graves. For that, I need to come up with a new nickname for her too. Heh._

 _For the last- Merry Christmas, and happy new year._


	19. Part V-IV

**Part V. IV – A Death in the Family***

* * *

It was quiet, like even the bat chirpings above the heights held their breaths and waited. Before the dawn, the sole occupant of the shadowy cavern stood up from his stool and walked toward the lift that was going to take him back to the lands of livings.

The manor, new but old, a ghost of the old days, a replica of what was lost. As his footsteps made no sound as he walked away, silence in the house absolute. He was alone. Today he wasn't the only one who had lost a friend.

The master bedroom. He opened it slowly with a hand, the only sound in the silence was the creaking wood as it let him inside. The bedroom was like non one had touched it for a time, and no one had touched it since last week. The newly risen sunlight was abusive after the gloom of the cave, like he was a creature of night. He walked to the windows and pulled down the shades. Better.

He then prepared.

Teeth brushed, body washed, hair trimmed, he walked out of the bathroom and found the black suit at the corner. Silky shirt, starched collar, pressed hems, he knotted the black tie, and wore his black jacket for the last. When he was suited, he gave a long overall to the reflection in the mirror.

He walked out of the master bedroom, and left the manor.

Outside, he craned his neck up and looked at the sky. Pale sun, yet no clouds. A perfect day for a funeral. His eyes saw his once guardian waiting for him beside the black Bentley, motionless like a statue. A guardian. He pulled up his collar over his neck, and walked to the old man.

He opened the car's door for him, "Master Wayne."

Wordlessly, Bruce Wayne nodded before climbing in the car, to bury another friend, another comrade, another loved one.

* * *

 _Yesterday_

The morning following the DHS agents grand entrance, Valerie sat a stool behind the computer hub in the cave, searching through Lucius Fox and Elliot Caldwell background to find any common point. A few feet from him, on a risen stand, Bruce was practicing on a wooden man dummy with a speed it was impossible for anyone to follow. His hands and feet coordinated a twelve steps combination in a continuous loop, his body positioned on bent knees, his face set with concentration, eyes focused only at his blows. Even though the distance between them, Valerie could see blood stains over the wooden surface.

Inwardly, she sighed. He'd been beating the hell out of the poor dummy more than an hour now, and she didn't know when he would stop. But at least, he was blowing off his steam, letting his mind off his darkened thoughts if only a few hours, so she wasn't too much upset about it, either. Truth to be told, she was too tired to be upset anymore. The anger she had felt at the roof the last night had been vaporized as soon as she had seen the DHS agents walking into the crime scene, taking over the investigation.

Grimacing, she turned her thoughts away from that path, and took the newspaper over the work station. There was nothing she could do about it. Elliot Caldwell was Wrath, a supposedly deceased ex-colleague of Floyd Lawton and Mercy Graves. The files had him declared dead three years ago, but she was the walking-breathing example of the manipulated records. She heaved another sigh. Perhaps she should join Bruce. She sure needed to blow off her steam. Hitting to something would—or at least should work. She tossed a quick glance at Bruce, and understood that she didn't want to hit something. She wanted to be—well, truthfully, she wanted to be with Bruce. She remembered how protected she felt in his embrace last night, how secure, like she was in a bubble. Outside there were monsters but with him, everything was going to be okay. Only, Bruce had sent her to the hotel with Jason afterward. He'd called her father, asked for his presence, then she was sent away.

She fucking hated it, but still felt too tired to protest. Then the next morning, she found him beating the wooden dummy. They hadn't spoken yet, not even a simple hello.

Her lips turned to a sneer, annoyance getting over her exasperation. This was how the life was for her as of late; a constant mood changes between irritation and weariness, when she wasn't downright enraged. _I AM enraged._ Oh, she hadn't been kidding then, but then she remembered the next; _I don't want to be happy, I want to be with you._ With a silent sneer, she chased all the words away, turned her attention to the newspaper in her hand, and immediately regretted her decision. _"CEO's funeral tomorrow,"_ she read the headlines inwardly, _"There is a question now everyone is wondering,"_ the article continued, _"Is Bruce Wayne going to attend the service?"_

Yes, indeed, she asked to herself.

Bruce's reluctance to go to any funeral was a common knowledge in Gotham, people had already noticed it when he hadn't showed up for Rachel Dawes', especially just after declaring her as his closest friend in a dinner party. Valerie hadn't directly asked, of course, but she suspected that he hadn't still gone to her grave, either. He was stuck that way. She wondered if he'd seen the newspaper. It was early morning, but Alfred should have already brought it, as Bruce only slept a few hours in the cave nowadays. Perhaps there was another reason for this crazed episode with these karate kid moves. Either way, things weren't going well.

She turned pages and found the article by Russell Baker, the head columnist of Gotham Times, and a rather devoid follower of Mayor. So she wasn't surprised to see; _"What are we waiting for?"_ The columnist asked with bold letters from headlines, _"Our bests are being killed one by one, and we're wasting time with philosophical chitchat. The threat is real, not just at our doorsteps, but inside our houses now. The criminals benefit our society's understanding, and look at what happened to Lucius Fox. Before you go to sleep, ask yourself, and be honest. Do they really deserve our mercy? You know the answer as much as I do. So, I ask again. What are we waiting for? Why Supreme Court hasn't still called to vote Act 1010? Mayor Elliot was certain in his campaign. He vowed he was going to stop this. So why we're waiting?"_

Oh boy. Valerie threw off the newspaper, closing her eyes. The oldest trick in propaganda psychological warfare; they were harvesting death, twisting it to their ends, to send the Joker to gallows. If she didn't know otherwise, she would even say Fox's murder had given them what they most needed, a perfect justification to stir things up, but she'd never been fan of conspiracy theories. Besides, Elliot Caldwell and his apparent _wrath_ for the police force stood nowhere close to Act 1010. Like Gordon said, this was personal, too close; a clear execution.

Expect for Fox. She threw her head back, letting out a grunt. She fucking hated this. She had been searching through the databases since last night, but there was nothing, nothing to connect Caldwell and Fox together. There was something else, some missing link that they needed to find, fast.

She swallowed another scream at the last moment. Perhaps she really needed hitting something. She jumped down from her stool, and walked to the platform. She climbed over the railings to the makeshift ring, and stood over the wooden dummy. Even though he saw her, and he must have, she'd _always_ been hard to miss, his attention stayed focused on his kata. He made a quick combination; deflect then capture with his right arm, and before he started with the left, she blocked his move with her arm. "Are you done?" she asked, as he held his arm still, looking at her directly, "because we need to talk."

With a sudden move, his arm dived down, pushing hers away, her blockade falling. Turning away from her, he continued the series like nothing had happened, only with a single command, "Talk."

She sighed deeply. "Have you seen the newspapers?"

Left arm; deflect, twist, capture. "Yes."

She raised one eyebrow. "So?"

Right arm; deflect, twist, capture… "So?" he asked back in a single breath.

"Tomorrow is the funeral," she said, taking a step further, "You should go."

His knee raised, and hit the wooden leg, "No."

"Bruce—"

The other knee raised too, "I have things to do."

She rolled her eyes. "The dummy isn't going anywhere. You can always beat him later."

With a brief hesitance, he stopped, and looked at her again. His chest moved up and down with the exercise, his eyes darkened with a familiar glint, something dangerous and chilling, he looked exactly like the man at the rooftop last night, like the man that used to corner her in the filthy motels' bathrooms months ago. They stared at each other for a few seconds, before she slowly said, "He was your friend, Bruce."

His eyes moved away. "I don't like funerals."

She nodded, "I know. But you still have to go."

He turned to her. "Why?"

"Because he was your friend," she repeated calmly, "and that's what friends do. When they leave, they say goodbye to each other." Even _she_ knew this. Before she had tried to leave him, she had left a letter, telling goodbye in her own way. So he should do, too, because otherwise she was afraid that he'd never forgive himself. "Bruce," she started again, taking another step closer, her voice now barely audible, "Whatever this's about," she said, looking at him, "Fox was a good man."

There was a certainty in her voice, something she hadn't been even aware of herself before she had said it aloud. It wasn't a consolation. Yes, there was a missing link, something that had Fox killed, but it didn't mean he was guilty. Bruce Wayne trusted him, with everything in his life, he had trusted the older man. What proof she needed more than that?

"How do you know?" he asked.

And she told him what she felt, "Because he was your friend."

* * *

At three o'clock, Bruce stepped down from the car, and stood at the gates where the memory service took place. The rows of black chairs over the grass, occupied by black dressed men and women. There was a bleak gloom in the air, in the whispers between the rows. Fox's picture was standing in front of them on a black granite platform, smiling at them, and next to the picture, there was the coffin.

Bruce felt that sharp pain, the cut of loss, like he was having a seizure. Suddenly there was silence, all voices around him hushed; there was only him and the coffin. _Because he was your friend._ No, not only a friend, he was more than a friend; Fox knew him, the real him, had trusted him, and yet again, he couldn't protect him, he couldn't save him. Once again, he had failed.

Flashes blazed up. He blinked, looking at the cameras. "He's come," he heard the whispered words, "He's come."

Bruce looked at the horde of the reports. There was an army of them, encircling him fast, like sharks over a bleeding prey. His jaw clenched grimly. He counted more than twenty figure at the first glance. Too much. "Mr. Wayne, sir, can we have a statement?" one of them asked as he started walking down toward the aisle. "What's your thoughts about the Act 1010? Do you still oppose it?" asked another.

Bruce kept walking, not even sparing a glance at them. They should have done this private, strictly press not allowed. As he walked, heads turned toward him over the guests, but Douglas Fredericks was the first one who approached. He stood up from his seat, and came over to him.

His steps were heavy, too slow even for his age. There was a genuine sadness etched to his face. Fox had been a close friend to the older man, too. "Mr. Wayne," the old man offered his hand, "I'm glad that you've come." Nodding, Bruce took his hand briefly. The man continued, "I know you don't like funerals, but this is important."

There was something in the words that made Bruce suddenly alert. "What do you mean?" the question left his mouth as rasped whispers, his back tensing.

At his sudden change of demeanor, Fredericks looked at him with narrowed eyes. Bruce forced himself to relax a bit.

"Mayor called me last night," Fredericks explained, his eyes still searching him, "He wanted to make a speech." He pointed at the cluster of the reports with his head, "They didn't come only for Fox. Mayor sent them a press release."

Bruce grimaced. "No," he objected stiffly, "Fox's funeral won't be a stage for politics. He can make whatever speech he wants away from here."

"Mr. Wayne—" he stopped, and started again after a second, his face softening, "Bruce, this's important. If you don't let him now, there will be a further mess. Do you want it?" His eyes threw a glance at the reporters, as if to make his point more apparent.

He didn't need to. Bruce already was aware of the consequences. His grimace grew more. "I must have been told," he snapped.

Fredericks nodded. "Yes. I called, but couldn't reach you. Alfred said you weren't to be disturbed."

"Why didn't you leave Alfred a message?" he questioned further.

"Well, frankly, Mr. Wayne," the older man said, his eyes suddenly taking a disapproval, "I didn't believe you would come."

For that, Bruce didn't have an answer. He himself hadn't believed he would have come. Leaving Fredericks without another word, he looked for Valerie. She should have come by now. Given the amount of the reports at the present, she probably would —had to— stay in the background, so he walked away from the general crowd, and just at the edge of the gathering, he saw her together with her father.

He walked toward them. "What's with these reporters?" Jason asked, looking of all things—bored, "The one last time I saw these much reporters, it was Elton John's funeral."

Valerie shot at him a glare. " _Father,"_ she warned under her breath.

"Mayor's going to make an attendance," Bruce answered, his voice carrying his frown too, "He's going to make a speech. He sent a notice to the press."

"What?" Valerie asked, "Why didn't we hear it?"

"Apparently, they planned it because they thought I wouldn't mind, as no one thought I was going to come."

"Oh," Valerie breathed out, then her eyebrows crunched. "That's not an excuse."

Bruce looked at her. "Either way, it's too late now to stop it without causing a scene."

"It's a trap," Valerie continued despite of his answer, "I thought Fredericks is on your side."

"I told you he voted for Mayor," Bruce reminded her, "Besides, perhaps it'll be better—" He stopped at the mid-sentence as his eyes fell on the figures walking into the graveyard. His jaw clenched. He shouldn't have come. He just shouldn't have. He knew sooner or later they would approach them, the episode from the last night had made it clear, but he had hoped his name at least would be enough to keep them away for a while. No such hopes anymore.

Sensing the change in his demeanor further, Valerie followed his gaze, and a curse immediately left her mouth as soon as she saw the DHS agents. "Fuck it."

"What the hell they're doing here?" Jason asked, confusion as clear as the sky above them in his tone.

"They've come to talk to me," Bruce answered, his voice nothing more than a hiss. "They took over the investigation."

"What?" Jason asked, as he turned to Valerie. "Valerie, go, now," he ordered.

But she shook her head. "No," she declined with a slow voice, "No. I'm not running away."

" _Valerie._ "

"No," she repeated louder, "No, they haven't come for you, Bruce. They have come for me." He opened his mouth, but she continued quickly, "You might be Bruce Wayne, but I'm the first witnesses. They surely read my deposition. I shouldn't be hiding." She paused for a second, her eyes giving a quick look around, "Though, I should be going, I suppose," she muttered with a frown, "It wouldn't be good them seeing us together." Another brief pause, the crease between her eyebrows deepening, "Especially if Detective Burke talked to them."

His eyes caught the former A.R.G.E.N.T operatives. "Too late for that," he rasped out as the duo spotted them and started walking toward them. His jaw almost throbbing, Bruce forced his expression into a forced indifference, nothing like the hang-over man they had visited a few days ago, but enough somber for a funeral, too. His friend's funeral. He wondered how much they knew about his friendship with Fox, how much they knew about Fox's past, too, something he didn't. He reminded himself what Valerie had said; _because he was your friend,_ and the way she had said it; the blind faith, the fiery conviction in her words, the trust. He knew she trusted him, something she possibly had never done before, but he hadn't understood the extent of it before. For a second, he wanted to grasp her and shake her senseless, to make her forsake that notion because he didn't deserve it. Because somehow he always found a way to fail the people who believed in him…his parents, Harvey, Rachel—

"Mr. Wayne," the monotone voice of redhead detective forced him out of his bleak thoughts. He forced himself again to relax, feigning a confused expression.

"Detectives," he called them again with wrong titles on purpose, "Um—All Gotham is really here?"

"Unlikely," Lawton answered his question, his eyes fixated on Valerie. On instinct, Bruce moved an inch toward her, but stopped as the man threw at him a half-glance. "Valerie West?" he asked to her.

"Yes," Valerie answered, staring at them with an unspoken daring, "Who's asking?"

A brief smirk titled the redhead agent's lips before it passed quickly. "Homeland Security," she answered, "We need to ask you a few questions."

"Why?" the word left his mouth.

"We're taking over Lucius Fox's investigation," she replied, turning aside to him, "Commissioner Gordon will inform you." She turned back to Valerie, and gestured, "Detective, please."

Valerie tossed a quick glance at him, silently asking—begging him not to react, then nodded and started walking with them.

His jaw throbbing, Bruce watched their retreating backs.

* * *

Blood drummed in her veins, her ear ringing, yet she still held the brave face, even her own being begged her to look back at Bruce. She steeled herself, and kept walking. She could see his eyes on her as they walked away from him, and if she could it, her company would surely do, too.

She told herself it was nothing. She was the first witness, so they wanted to question her, nothing personal. She was Valerie West, private detective, the unfortunate employer of Wayne Enterprises, nothing more. She straightened her shoulders. Nothing more.

The damn agents stopped when they had come to a clearing in the graveyard, away from the prying eyes. Quickly she swept a look around, trying to decide if Bruce was in range to her wired phone. He could hear their conversation but if the agents jammed the signals… Mentally, she shook her head. He was the Batman. He always would find a way. Always.

"Detective," the redhead agent started, giving a look. Valerie recalled her name…Mercy, Mercy Graves, "What were you doing last night at Cicero One?"

For a second or so, Valerie looked at her dumbfounded. She'd thought they would have at least had the courtesy of warming up her, asking the basic question first. Not with them, not of course. They were black op operatives, pretending to be _just_ Homeland Security agents. "I'm sorry?" she asked, feigning confusion.

"What were you doing last night at Cicero One?" Graves repeated with the same monotonous tone, "They have seen you last night talking with Commissioner Gordon at the crime scene."

She acted she was collecting herself, then she frowned, and this time wasn't a show. "Then you know why," she snapped, "Those murders of the retired officers are connected to Mr. Fox's case. I heard about the bullet."

"How?" the redhead pressed further. Lawton just watched their exchange silently, which disturbed her a great deal. That man, those eyes—that dead, blue eye, the silence with him was the most troublesome, it was clear as day.

Still, she kept her eyes trained on Graves. "I have my sources."

Suddenly, Lawton's lips cracked for a tiny fraction, forming the weirdest smirk smile she had ever seen on someone, and that was saying much when your father was Jason Allen. "Clearly," the agent commented, "I'm afraid we'll need to ask about those—sources, detective."

She smiled inwardly too. She was already prepared herself for that question. "Just paying the right people," she said, "it's not the world's biggest secret, is it?"

Graves shot a look at her partner, but the man's eyes didn't waver from her. She held them defiantly, staring at him back. It was possibly a mistake, but she couldn't help herself. She had been threatened a way too much by that man, a way too much. Then he tilted his head aside, and said musingly, "You look familiar—" A brief frown passed over his features, as he took a step closer to her, "Have we meet before?"

Fuck being not threatened… She almost took a step back herself, her heart pounding fast in her chest, too _loud_. She felt her pulse throbbing across her neck.

"No," she rasped out, trying to slow down her reactions. "I don't think so."

"It's funny—" he muttered, his frown deepening, "I never forget a face." A pause with another look, then he asked—no, he demanded, "What's your connection to Bruce Wayne?"

She started at him openly, as his partner's head snapped at him. "I—I'm sorry?"

"Your relationship with Bruce Wayne," the man repeated calmly, "We heard about it—" Another pause as his lips cracked again, "It isn't the world's biggest secret."

Her taken aback look turned to a glare. "If you heard that, you also must have heard that we don't have any relationship," she forced out through her teeth, "And I'm not sure why it'd be any of your damn business even if we _had_ one."

Okay. Her mouth once again got the best of her. She cursed herself as soon as the words were spoken, but Lawton merely looked at her back straight. She didn't like that, either. She could almost see the wheels turning behind those blue calculating eyes. She pressed down a shiver. "Have you ever considered how life would be for a bored billionaire?" he asked finally after his long inspection, his tone having the same slowness of contemplation again.

She didn't know what she was supposed to say after that, so she asked, "What's that suppose to mean?"

"It means you have to be _very_ careful, detective," Lawton replied, before he turned and started walking away. Heaving a sigh, Valerie agreed on the kind _suggestion_.

* * *

When she found her father again, Mayor was talking fiercely at the aisle, people listening to him with occasional murmurs and nods. She picked up the words from the speech as she walked along, _we'll make Gotham great again, have faith…_ but she wasn't interested in the words, no, her mind as of the moment was solely occupied by what DHS agents might have discovered.

 _You have to be very careful._ God, she couldn't even imagine how Bruce would react once he heard about their conversation. He certainly must have expected something along these lines, as she had, but this was Bruce Wayne. If there was something she'd learned in the last year, it was that Bruce didn't like his loved ones being in the danger. Gordon and Alfred had made the exceptions to the case, but when it was her… any distraction from his objective was intolerable. _I can't tolerate this anymore_ , she recalled his words, and suppressed the memories followed. No, it wasn't time to dwell on those thoughts now. Her eyes swept around, looking for him, but she couldn't spot him. She turned to Jason.

"Where is Bruce?" She started backing away from the crowd again, as if to put a distance between them as much as she could. God, she really wanted a drink.

"He left—"

"What?"

"Alfred called. He found another recording from that man. Guy," he clarified as she stopped dead in her tracks. God, she _really_ wanted a drink. She knew the funeral wouldn't be anything good but she hadn't suspected this much shit storm, either. "What is it?" she asked.

Jason shook his shoulders off. "I don't know. He didn't tell." A small frown appeared. "After all the time we've spent together, one can expect him to be more—open, right? But of course, not that guy," he muttered. "He's making me the lousiest bodyguard in the universe."

She took her phone out. "You're not his bodyguard, you're his head security," she retorted, calling him. "Bruce, what happened?" she asked, when he picked up the line. Well, that's a good point, she supposed. She wasn't cut off. "Where are you?"

"I'm going to see Bottlecup," he answered with a rasp. Valerie wondered if he was already in his armor. Lifting her neck, she looked up at the slowly darkening sky. Winter closing, the night was falling early. In the distance, she heard faint police sirens. Or was is just her own imagination? She couldn't honestly tell anymore. Correction, she amended mentally, she needed a drink.

"What happened?" she asked, pushing that thought away too, "Jason said Alfred found another recording."

"Yes," he agreed with one word.

"And-?"

"He mentioned _wrath,_ " he hissed from the other side, "he said 'a wrath stirs up in the hearts.' It's him, Valerie. He created Unheards, then made them attack my birthday to assess my security before he made his move. A standard method for insurgency. Guy is Caldwell." He paused for a second before concluded, "and he's planning something."

Before she could say anything, loud applauses boomed in the eerie silence of the graveyard. She snapped toward the crowd's direction. They were all on their feet, clasping their hands with a religious zest as Mayor greeted his audience back with the same vigor. Trouble, further trouble was coming. Leaving her, Jason ran along to the crowd.

"Bruce," she said, following him, "I'm gonna call you back." She met Jason a few feet away from the still applauding crowd. "What's that?" she asked, "What's happening?"

"Mayor—" Jason answered, "He's just announced the Supreme Court will vote Act 1010 the next weekend."

It was finally all making sense; the articles she had read this morning, why the old man wanted to make an appearance here today. Turning around, she looked at the scene unfolding before her very eyes. They were going to do it. All stones were settled; all reasons were created. They were going to kill the Joker.

In her mind passed the snapshots, the young faces, the dreams of the youth, and for the last, her own childhood. This wasn't going to get a happy ending, not she knew anything from the history. No. She couldn't watch it. She couldn't stand aside and pretend she didn't care. Not anymore. Bruce could be furious as much as he wanted. It was his fault anyway. He had made her care at the first place. Determination turned her insides steel. She hated what she spoke the next, but still, she did it.

"Call Doctor Quinzel," she ordered Jason, starting walking away, "Try to find out what they'll be doing."

"Where are _you_ going?" her father called after her back.

"I'm going to find him—" she yelled back over her shoulder, dialing another number. The line answered at the first ring. She spoke without hesitance, "Derrick Malkin—" She got in the car, and turned on the motor, "we need to talk."

* * *

 _*A Death in the Family, is the title of the infamous Batman comic book in which Jason Todd, the Robin, died at the hands of the Joker._

 _Things will start escalating with the next part, finally, as we made to the funeral too, so we're ready. The next chapter will hopefully the things that I've been planning to do since the beginning of story, so with a bit of luck, it won't take another month for me to be ready to update. Sorry about that, too. You know, life and work..._

 _Another thing I feel like mention... I've been wondering about my other reviewers, especially the guest ones. You used to leave reviews, which used to make me very motivated and happy, but as of late I don't see you around, which makes me curious because the readership of the story doesn't decline, but increases with every new chapter. So, please, don't forget/hesitate to leave a review. Reviews are great motivators, and I surely need to feel motivated these days. Thanks._


	20. Part VI-I

**Part VI. I – The Unseen**

* * *

By the time Batman crouched at the fire escape of the tavern at the corner, the sun had completely set in the west. In the narrow, angled streets of Gotham's slums, everything was quiet. Usually, under the darkness, streets stirred with the voices of the night. He swept his eyes around, observing the uncharacteristic stillness. He knew of the quiet before the storm. It wasn't like that. There was no strain, no stretching tension filing the air. It was just—empty, as if, deserted, deserted to—

 _Tell them we're not hiding! Tell them we are becoming!_

The words he had just heard from the old radio snapped up in his mind. It seemed that the time for hiding had really ended. His back turning rigid, he squared up his shoulders, his reserves turning into steel. He had become, too. The Batman. The Dark Knight. He was vengeance. He was the night.

And this had prevailed too long. _He_ had let it go too long.

No more. Now, it was time to act.

Ten second later, Bottlecup showed up at the corner of the street, shooting covert glances over his shoulder. He reached out his gauntlet hand, shot the mechanism on his wrist and hoisted the slum kid up at the fire escape, one step below him at the ladder.

"Fuck—fuck—" Bottlecup cried out muffled curses, messaging his neck with his hand, and looked up at him. "Do ya really do that al' time, man?"

In answer, Bruce pulled up on his feet. His eyes widening, Bottlecup swept one step on his bottom, his hands raising up in the air as if to call truce. "The Unheards," he rasped out like thunder, "How do they communicate?"

Bottlecup frantically nodded. "Got it—learned it yesterday. They—they called it Network, the word pass from ears to ears from homeless to us—" He pointed to himself, a glint suddenly lighting in his eyes, "to slum kids."

The old radio, the old spy networking. He should have known. "Bubble Gum and Dan," Batman grounded out the next, "They communicate the same way?"

Again, Bottlecup nodded. "Ya. Bubble Gum found a slip of paper in the garbage bin in the street. An address. Dunno why—" He shook his shoulders. "Close to east midtown—" A danger bell rung in his mind, and Bottlecup said, "A lawyer from the Central Park."

Derrick Malkin. He had sent them to spy on Derrick Malkin, knowing that sooner or later they would find his trail. And he had walked into his trap with his own feet just like Valerie— Valerie!

Elliot must have seen her too at the lawyer's office.

Quickly he jumped up to the rooftop, leaving Bottlecup, and called Valerie. The line didn't pick up. With an inward curse, he called Alfred. "Alfred—" he shot out even before Alfred said a word, "Where is Valerie?"

"She went to the city center—" Alfred answered immediately under background voices. Stretching his ears, Bruce realized Alfred was watching TV. His brows tightened more. "After you left the funeral, sir," Alfred continued, "Mayor declared the Gotham Supreme Court will vote for the Act 1010." Bruce exhaled out sharply. He knew without a doubt what was coming next. "The protesters in the Central Park didn't take it well. They've started walking to the City Hall. The police blockaded the area but Mayor also called the National Guards."

Suddenly the stillness around him made sense. He craned his neck and looked at the westward, towards the heart of his city, where the long predicted riot had finally broken out.

* * *

"Excuse me—excuse me—" Valerie cried out continuously in a loop, making through the crowd as she pushed people off of her way. Everything around her was in chaos. The Central Park had been always a stirring hive since the time the infamous act had enacted, but under the loom of another Act, things had only turned to worse. The crowd before were merely annoyed and upset, about the way of things – everyone she turned, she saw the same slogans over the banners and signs— short but straight to the point "No security with no privacy. Say no to Act 1010", together with "we're the %99" but now they were beyond that. They were enraged, like a bomb about to explode, in waiting someone to press the red button.

She pushed two women and one man, screaming out of her way as her eyes caught one particular sign among the masses. Her arms falling at her sides, her steps faltered, her eyes stuck ahead like she suddenly caught dead. In the crowd two young boy were carrying a sign that declared "We're the Unheards", while crying out "Our voice will be heard." Another three appeared behind them, holding up another big banner; "Kill One of Us, and Two More Appear. We're Legion, for We're Many. We're the Unheards."

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath, realizing things would escalate soon in a way that would make both parties lose at the end. She had already seen this story, countless times, while growing up. Hell, she had been even one of the many walking-ons. There was no happy ending here, none she could see.

At the West Entrance of the Park, she found Rory. She'd called him on her way to the park, and truth to be told, as of the moment there was no one else she wanted at her side than him. Bruce, with all of his good intentions and fiery determination to make things better, would never understand this, not like Rory did, simply because he'd never been, not even in his wayward wandering years, one of the %99. Because he was, and always, would be one of the %1. There was nothing to do about it. It was the way of the things, too.

But _that_ , she thought as her eyes picked up another scene that made her steps falter once again, was certainly not. Well, double fuck. She went to Rory's side, her eyes fixed at the National Guards walking into already the policed protected area. "I've got a bad feeling about this," she murmured as roars of furry exploded in the crowd upon seeing the heavily armed forces.

His eyes at the National Guards, too, Rory responded with the same tone, "You telling me."

She heaved a sigh, then shook her head. No. She was here for another purpose. Seeing this sight had made her purpose even more clear. Somewhere out in this city, there was a man who could stop this whole madness, the same man who probably had started it.

Elliot Caldwell.

She turned to Rory and looked at him seriously. "Stay here, do whatever you can if provocateurs show up to stir things. If I understood anything from Mayor, they _will_."

Getting her point, Rory nodded. She started pushing people away again. "Find Jason, too. He went to see Doctor Quinzel. Her platform needs to be under control." Though, that was asking miracles.

"Where are you going?" Rory asked from her behind but she didn't answer. She took out her phone, and turned it off. She couldn't deal with Bruce, not now. And if anything went bad, there was her bracelet. He could always track her down. Her eyes skipped down, as her fingers traced the fake golden around her wrist, almost on instinct. A sudden guilt seeped in, and she almost reached out to her phone again, this time to call him. They were a team, and the thing she was about to do was stepping out the rules, something she always accused of Bruce doing. Then she saw the back of Derrick Malkin, and the sudden moment of guilt vaporized at the face of the reality.

Even if they were a team, the truth was that they were a very bad, highly dysfunctional one, likewise their relationship. She shook her head again, dispelling the insidious thought. Now it wasn't the time to dwell on the domestic hurdles. "Derrick!" she yelled, choosing to go with the first name basis, "Derrick!"

Recognizing her voice after a few second, the lawyer turned and found her approaching toward him through the crowd. She pushed another protester out of her way and stood in front of him, exhaling out. Malkin's eyes narrowed. "Detective," he caught her arm and pushed her in, before another young black boy with the "We're the Unheard" placard ran her over, "What are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked, pointing the banner with her head, "You saw it. They're everywhere."

Malkin gave her a grave nod, his eyes sweeping around. "It was only a matter of time," he said, his eyes fixed at one particular sign. She turned aside to see it. "before people woke up," he said, as he eyes read "Wake Up!" on the sign.

"It's more than that," she encountered, pointing again the National Guards with her head, "Mayor doesn't waste time. I'm sure the provocateurs are preparing even while we speak. Soon someone will throw a rock or even worse a Molotov, and then all hell would lose." She closed her eyes for a second, letting out another sigh, "I grew up in Belfast. I know how this usually ends."

In the madness of the world, they shared a look, long for the moment, long for the memory. "Why did you send me Batman?" he then finally asked, his eyes still on hers.

She didn't back down, nor did she try to lie. It felt, even with the little connection they had, they were beyond that. "Why did you lie?" she asked back instead.

A slow smile cracked his lips. "I already told him," he said.

She shook her head, even though she knew his meaning. "Tell me how to find him," she pressed on. "Caldwell is Guy. He's the one who organized this—" she continued, pointing the Unheards.

The smile vanished off, and he shook his head back at her. "It's already too late to stop this, detective, don't you see it?"

" _He_ could," she said, strain low in her voice.

This time Malkin gave her a sad smile. "He's just a wayward fallen hero," he said, "but the truth is even before he lost his way and started with his own vengeance, he was only dealing with flies that the swamp produces. The swamp still stands where it is, only with different kind of mud now. If a city desperately needs a hero, there is something deeply rotten in the city."

And she had already heard about it. "Perhaps," she said, her voice taking a sly snare, "but even if it's true, he's at least doing something. What exactly have you done aside talking philosophically?"

"Mind you, detective, you're talking with the public enemy one. I've done everything I could to make people take problems on their own hands." He looked around. "And by the look of things, you can't say I've failed."

"Yes," she admitted, "Yes, you did, but this has grown out of your control, Derrick," she said, taking a step closer to him. "You're not stupid or prim enough not to see it." This time the lawyer didn't give her any response. "Tell me how to find him," she urged on, her voice almost taking on an imploring tone, "You're the first one who crossed paths with him. You _must_ know something!"

For a while, he kept his silence, then finally yielded. He walked in on her, and leaned toward her ear. "Go to where it's started for him," he whispered out, "Go to the crime scene."

* * *

Leaving his armor in the bunker and wearing an undercover attire he deemed fit for a protester, he quickly drove toward the city center. He left the white Hyundai a few blocks away and crossed the police barricades at the perimeters on feet. Before he reached the park that faced the City Hall, he was searched twice, his empty backpack rustled through to find any discriminating evidence like lemons, antacid, vinegar, googles, or worse gas mask.

The crowd, like he had been expecting, was boiling. He pulled out his phone and saw there was no signals. He looked around, and spotted the big jammer trailers just outside the city hall. The connection was cut out. He could use his own satellite phone, the Wayne Enterprises slick device was still with him, but he could draw attention to him in the crowd. To get his bearings, he started walking.

Of course, Valerie came to here. She always had a way to put herself in the middle of the things. Jason and Rory would also be here, Rory, possibly with Valerie, and Jason, if not anything else than out of curiosity. He circled the ground for a while, looking out the familiar faces, but he couldn't spot anyone of them, but then without any communication, it would be a miracle to find them in the massive crowd, and Bruce knew himself. He was always on short when it came to miracles.

It was when he noticed it first when he turned toward the east wing, closer to City Hall. The density of the populace was heavier in this part as if the gravity of the situation made things denser. And the signs were much more violent than the usual "say no to Act 1010." Then he read, "One day the poor will have nothing to eat but the rich" and "We're Legion. We're the Unheards. Tonight Our Voice Will Be Heard."

A cold tremor passed through his back as his hands pulled into fists. It had started, it had really started. Too much dwelled in his own, he had let things go past by him. Once again, once more, he had another sociopath play with his city.

A stir roused among the front lines, then voices raised, and as a wave it went over all sides, as suddenly bright flashes exploded and a heavy, angry mist fell in. On quick reflex, he closed his eyes, as his hand covered his mouth and nose. He raised his other hand to catch the young man he was caught unguarded at the attack as the quickened heartbeats of the crowd screamed out, "Tear gas! They're shooting tear gas!"

At the mention of the low-rate chemical weapon, the crowd turned to worse. The back fronts started falling back with panic, as the angrier aggressors passed the masks over their faces, and started to counteract. Sudden cobblestones threw at the directions of the police barricades, and the police answered it with plastic bullets.

As one of the bullets hit him at arm, he took out the satellite phone. In the turmoil, there was no need for cover. He threw himself into a corner, and called Alfred. "Alfred," he barked out, his voice strained with the gas, missing terribly the protection of his armor. In times like these, he remembered—realized how weak he was as Bruce Wayne. The thought soured his voice even more, as he crushed it down. "Alfred, find Valerie," he ordered, "Where is she?"

"Zeroing in, sir," Alfred answered immediately, "Done," he said then a few seconds later, "I'm sending you the coordinates."

Bruce took out his tracker screen and transferred the data, and saw that her signal was coming far away from the Central Park. "What the—" the rest of his words swallowed by the angry voices of the crowd as the clashes grew heavier.

"What have you done this time Valerie? What?" he muttered to himself, pulling back, to find a way out of the park. It was a good thing that he had passed a significant amount of his nights playing hide-and-seek with the police force. He knew every short-cut, every back alley, every hidden passage of Gotham's streets and soon enough he was away of the city center.

Before he went to look for her, he looked at it the last time, his city burning. The guilt he felt was beyond everything he knew. He didn't know how to spot. Batman had started it, but Batman couldn't stop this time. When it had been Ducard's insane annihilation, he could stop it. When it had been the Joker's madness, he could stop it. Batman had been a part of them, but there, he had no place. This battle wasn't the one Batman could fight. He had always wanted to inspire people, make Batman a symbol, to fight back, to resist, but this was what he had accomplished.

A city destroyed by its foundations.

His lips flattened into a grim line, he turned and started searching for Valerie.

* * *

It was dark, so dark that no star shed any flicker of light to it. Valerie crossed it a few times, a darkness creeping over hand, making the hair on her back standing attention. The air was so strained it was hard to breath. She wondered if it was her own imagination, the exhaustion and the worry of the days or there was indeed something rotten in this back alley.

Like a murder. Like _three_ murders.

She trembled, but refused to give in. She came to here for a reason. Derrick had told her this was how their paths first crossed, out of sheer luck or not, soon she was going to find out. One night, the lawyer was out to investigate the crime scene of his case, and saw a shadow… a darkness…

Something stirred in the dark. She snapped on her heels, her eyes squinted at the darkness, waiting. Nothing. No voice. Her neck lifted, she turned around herself, and shouted, "Show yourself! I know you're here!"

Her ears stretched out, she listened... no voice. "Elliot Caldwell!" she screamed, "Talk to me!" Again, nothing… "I know you want revenge," she continued, "They slaughtered your family then covered it up like it didn't matter. You've a right to revenge their deaths. But this isn't the way." She shook her head with frustration, "They wait for it, and you're giving it to them on a silver platter." Her words echoed in the nothingness, "Goddammit, Caldwell, you can stop this!" she yelled, her voice carrying all the desperation she felt, "Talk to me!"

A move, a flicker—she turned, and saw a silhouette—approaching. She expelled a breath, closing her eyes. When they were opened, the silhouette took a shape of man—then another moved along.

And she understood her mistakes. Her heart raised in her throat, she took back steps. "Detective West," Lawton Floyd called out coldly, this time no humor in his eyes neither in his voice, "We warned you to be careful."

She raised her arms as they walked toward her. "My assistant knows I'm here," she lied, cursing herself all along the way. "I warn you—"

"Your assistant is in the park, detective," Mercy Graves answered, "just like the rest of Gotham. As for the warnings—" she paused for a second, "I'm afraid we've passed that."

Yes, yes, they did. So she did the most logical thing. She turned and started running away. She'd always praised herself to be a good runner, after all of her life had passed running from one place to another before she had met Bruce Wayne, but the speed Floyd Lawton suddenly showed was beyond any foe she had ever fought against. Within a heartbeat, he closed in on her, and caught her behind. Her head collided with the wall, his knee at her back keeping her at the place. She kicked her leg back, toward his groin. Momentarily, his grip loosened, then he tightened it heavier than before. His hand fisted her hair at the back of her neck, and her head hit at the wall again. For a moment, she could swear she saw the stars. Blood started seeping over her forehead. She whimpered. "It's futile to resist," the cold voice told her.

She tried to buckle as her hands captured with plastic cuffs. A black bag passed over her head. "Let go off me!" she screamed, fighting off as they carried her away.

"You're gonna be sorry for this—" Her voice muffled out behind the bag, "You—" Something went over her arm, then beeped.

"Oh, what we've got here?" Mercy asked, her voice turning into a sneer, her fingers brushing her bracelet, before she grabbed it and pulled it off.

She gave out a long muffled scream, fighting with them with all of her might. She heard a door slipped and she was pushed inside in a van. Blinded, she launched for the door the last time but something pierced her skin before she was thrust back. She tried to move, her muscles didn't listen her will. She stumbled on her knees, her limbs feeling like stone.

She dropped on the van's metal floor, her lips trying for a word, darkness falling in on her… "Bruce…" she whispered out before she passed out.

* * *

He realized where she had headed even before he saw the back alley. "Goddammit, Valerie!" he shouted, shoving the palm screener in his pocket, running toward the street a few blocks away from Crime Alley where another felony had occurred at same the night his parents were killed.

If it had been another time, the alley, the situation would have given him creeps, despite the years, despite the nights he had spent wandering in Gotham's back alleys, he had never brought himself to go to the Crime Alley again.

But worry was a great motivator, he had come to admit, worry for the loved ones. With another curse, he started to run. When he found her, this time, he was really going to kill her.

He ran into the street, yelling her name— "Valerie-!" then he stopped, looking at the empty place. He quickly took out the trackers and checked it out again. There it was, blinking red in the map, at the same place he had seen.

Lifting his neck, he looked around—then a glint in the dark caught his eyes at the corner of the wall. He madly ran to it, and picked up the bracelet he had given to her month ago in Belfast before they went to save Rory, covered with blood.

His hand fisting around it, an animalistic scream tore him apart.

* * *

Her head split in two, she slowly stirred, regaining her senses despite the fuzziness of her sight. She whimpered out, slowly lifting her head and tried to move and found she couldn't. The cobwebs still hanging over her minds, she tried another time, but no—she couldn't move her body. She slowly dropped her eyes down and saw that she was tied down on a chair, each arm held over wrist onto the handles much like her feet onto its legs. She snorted—or at least she tried, but she wasn't sure the voice she had managed with. Inspecting more, she saw the chair was also fasted on the ground, so there didn't seem any way of escape even if she could _move._

She raised her head higher and found her captors, leaning over the wall across her. Though, this time she counted three. She blinked a few times, to make sure she didn't lose her mind completely with the drugs they had fed her… "Ms. West—" the third party spoke with a cultivated tone.

She gulped down, and looked at the voice. It was a woman of fifties, with sturdy curves and intimidating prose, but it could be just a side effect of being the one tied down. She wetted her lips, and asked, trying to hold up at least the appearances, "Do I know you?" she asked.

"Not many people do—" the woman answered, "I'm called Control. I'm the head of Task Force X and was the brain after the A.R.G.E.N.T."

If she could manage it, she could raise her eyebrow after her declaration. She gulped down instead, staring at the imposing woman. She couldn't think of any good reasons for her to declare herself in that way, openly, not in her favors, anyways. If her aim was to scare her off, the woman unfortunately had succeeded. She was getting scared to _death._

"Look—" she tried her chances, "If this is about Caldwell—"

The woman interrupted her, "Today my agents searched your office and found files under the name of A.R.G.E.N.T. You see, if this was just about that stupid boy and his poor dead family, we'd let you live. We didn't touch the lawyer," she explained like a mother did to her child, a touch of disappointment in her voice, "Unfortunately for each of us, this isn't about Elliot. This is about how _you_ found it out." She started walked to her, her eyes turning deadly, "How a city detective for hire like you could have found out one of the world's biggest secrets."

She cracked up a smile. "I'm good with research."

The woman smiled back. "Then if you prove yourself to be— _resourceful_ , I might even think of hiring you."

Her smile vanished off, she raised her head in defiance, holding back her dread. "You wouldn't afford it."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Control said, heaving a sigh and turned around. "She's yours," she called to her agents, "I want her broken before the dawn. We're on a tight schedule."

"Yes, ma'am," Mercy shot out eagerly, a way too eagerly for her comfort. Despite her best efforts, dread reclaimed her. Control left the hangar, and she looked at the DHS agents.

Lawton approached her as Graves started taking off her shoes, and placed them on a table next to door before she opened a case on it. Lawton trailed her eyes, and gave them that sickening smirk. "She always does that before questioning someone," he commented, "She doesn't like her shoes getting—ruined."

She pulled her eyes away from the woman, as the snippets from the dossier she had found for the DSH agents passed in her mind. The questioner. Mercy Graves. She tried another smile, and possibly failed. "It'd be a blaspheme to ruin a Christian Louboutin."

His smile grew more as his hands suddenly reached out toward her neck. She braced herself for a furious attack but to her surprise, his fingers only brushed over her skin, softly. "You have a beautiful neck," he whispered, "Like a swan—long, delicate—like if I press a bit too much, it would snap in two." His fingers traced her neckline. She flinched back from his touch. He smiled more, then his eyes narrowed, looking at her. His hands went toward the back of her ear, under her neckline where the little scars from her operations ran across faintly. He brushed his fingers over them, "How did you get these?" he asked.

This time she kept her mouth shut. The redhead agent came to their side, holding something very close to a car battery in her hand, wires existing out of it. "Lawton—" the woman called out, an unspoken inquiry inside her tone, as Valerie stared at the battery.

Lawton dropped his hands off and took a step back. Mercy set the battery on another table next to her chair with a long thud. She kept her eyes away from it, looking ahead in defiance. She didn't know how long she could endure, dawn was damn _too_ away, and Bruce possibly didn't have any slightest idea where she was. Nevertheless, she wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. Graves walked toward, two different set of wires hanging out her hands. She leaned toward her and started attached them over her upper arm. Roaring out a scream, she fought back furiously, trashing her body, any remaining effects of the drug cleared off her system at the very close prospect of the torture, but once again her resistance was futile. Before the woman secured the last electrical wire, she launched upward and caught her ear. She bit.

Graves screamed as she bit harder, blood running over her chin. A backhand exploded at her check, moving her head backward, causing her drop the ear. She glared at Lawton who had just slapped her. She spat out blood at his feet. "Too bad your shoes got ruined," she snarled with venom.

Lawton stared at her hard. "Who's your source?"

"Go fuck yourself!"

"Mercy!" he bellowed as she prepared herself for pain, steeling herself.


	21. Part VI-II

**Part VI. II – "Inspiring Madness"**

* * *

He was no stranger to fear. That ominous heavy feeling in your stomach, that twisted guts, that strain in the chest—out of despair. When his scream ended, everything was hushed. He lifted his head and looked at the starless sky. He gave out long dragged breaths and called for the void like he had been taught many years ago. He was fear, he was the vengeance, he was the night. He poured the fear in the void, and standing up, locked it away from him, out of reach. He could not fail, not this time, not another time.

He was going to find her or he was going to die trying.

Deadly calm, he took his phone. He called Alfred. "Sir—" His once guardian answered at the first ring. "Sir—"

"Alfred, find me all CCTVs that look at this street," he ordered in calmness, his voice hard but resolute, "And come to the bunker." He closed the phone without giving time to Alfred respond.

He wasn't interested in any responses. He was going to find her. He was going to— The barriers of his shelter shook and fear seeped through inside, an insidious sly voice asking— "what if you can't? What if she dies like-?" He stopped the voice before the question was finished, but it was too late.

 _What if she dies like Rachel?_

 _NO!_ Not again, not another one—No! Never again, never again—The emptiness shook within foundations but this time it wasn't of fear, but of anger. He reached out and took it, wrapped it around himself as he started running toward the car, ready to challenge the world, ready to burn the world to the ground to find her, to save her.

* * *

She was no stranger to pain. That itchy feeling that etched on the flesh, the fear of anticipation when you waited another blow to come—screams and salty tears on your lips, god, no, she wasn't stranger to pain, but this wasn't anything she had ever experienced before.

As the current passed through her body, she shrieked like she had never done before in her life, too loud that she couldn't be even sure that voice belonged to her. No human would scream like that, or she had believed.

She could, she could scream even louder, and she did. When the current abruptly stopped, it left its place to tingles and more pain if it was even possible. She slipped over her chair as long as her bonds let her, her head lolled over. She tasted tears and snot through her lips but she couldn't find energy to split. She let them run over her chin, and closed her eyes. _If you don't see the monsters, monsters cannot see you…_

"Does it hurt?" the monster asked in a feminine voice.

If she could manage, Valerie could laugh. Without lifting her head, she raised her eyes and looked at Graves. She was smiling. "I know it does—" the agent continued, "I was questioned before too, for days—" she paused, nodding at her, "so believe me when I say this. What you feel right now is nothing what you will experience in a few hours if you keep your mouth shut."

And the moon was still high in the sky, she completed in her mind, her eyes skidding over the long windows in the heights. She knew threat wasn't an empty one, and with the little time they had spent together she understood how capable Mercy Graves was for her job. Even the thought of it was almost made her scream for _mercy_ but she refused to give in. She was not going to beg them. Instead she weighted the possibilities of escape. The options were slim. She couldn't climb up there in the windows, not in this state, even if she _somehow_ managed to get herself free and dealt with the agents.

Her eyes found her other captor, standing away from them, his back at the wall, watching them carefully but not making a sound.

Despite of his silence and inactivity he still frightened her more than Graves. Graves was just heeding according to her orders but there was something more in Lawton's gaze, a clear curiosity, not only for her source, but also for _her._ A tremble passed over her again, but this time wasn't because of the torture. She recalled the way he touched her faint scars under her chin, the way he looked at her—God, she was in deep shit, in very deep shit.

She shook her head mentally. No. She wasn't. Bruce would come in any minute. She didn't know how but she knew he would. He would not let those people torture her to death.

Torture her to death. The words echoed in her hazy mind with a certainty. This was how her life would end? In this shitty shit hole, tied to a chair, stifled with her vomit and snot… She knew she would never die in peace, when she said she wasn't afraid when Ronnie had pointed a gun at her she hadn't lied, she wasn't afraid, she wasn't afraid of dying but this—

"Who is it?" Mercy Graves asked again, "Who is your source?" Mercy Graves's voice cut through her dark musings.

She kept her mouth shut. Shaking her head, Graves leaned more over her. "I know people like you—" she whispered to her ear, "You're arrogant. Your pride makes you defiant. People like don't surrender. People like you has to be beaten into obedience so that you could feel yourself better."

Valerie almost laughed. She knew herself, and she had never been too much prideful when it came to pain. Granted, she was defiant, but she was also pragmatist. She'd been questioned before, and she had managed to survive but there was one vital difference between those times and tonight.

There she didn't deal with old spies trained for this, but only angry, greedy mobsters and it was easy to manipulate people when you had something they wanted badly, and second and more importantly she had never cared for the people she might have sold at the end. She wouldn't prefer it, but she couldn't die of torture to protect them, either, whereas here—

"It's not pride, Mercy," Lawton suddenly commented, walking to her. She snapped her head at him. "She doesn't talk because she's too much prideful for her well-being," he said as another string of fear captured her. He stood over her, his eyes narrowed with trepidation, "It's loyalty," he announced, "she cares what happens to her source."

* * *

When Bruce entered in the bunker, Alfred had already found the security cameras footage. He ran across the white hall and turned on the computer hub.

On the screens, he saw her talking to the air, turning around herself, her head craned up. There must be a reason why she had gone there, to find Caldwell, of course, but someone had to point her to that exact spot and Bruce had a good idea who that someone might be. Taking his phone, he called Rory.

"Rory—" He greeted the younger man through the background noises. He must be still in the city center. "Did Valerie tell you who she was going to talk to?"

"No—" Rory answered, "I asked but she didn't answer. She probably didn't want us to stop her—" he paused, understanding what he had said, "Did—did something happen?" he asked, a hidden fear straining his voice.

"She's kidnapped," Bruce answered simply.

"Her tracker?" Rory asked in a small voice, the fear now clear in his voice.

"It was taken," Bruce said, "I found it in the street where Caldwell's family was murdered. She went to there."

Rory was in silence for a little while, then he spoke, "What do you want me to do?"

"Stay where you are," Bruce answered, "My CI sent me a message," he continued, recalling the message Bottlecup had sent him while he drove to the bunker. The message seemed urgent but he couldn't deal with him now. He had to find Valerie. Everything came second next to that. "Talk to him, learn what has happened." Perhaps Bottlecup had information about Valerie but it was very unlikely.

His eyes turning to the computer screen, he watched two DHS agents approaching to Valerie from the darkness. His blood turning cold, he watched as Lawton hit her head roughly at the wall, Graves putting a black bag over her head. She still fought, though, kicking and screaming like she always did, but soon she was lost in the van waiting for them. The footage stopped.

His fixated at the screen, he looked at the frozen image. His fisted hands drew blood. Derrick Malkin. Derrick Malkin had sold her to the agents. "Derrick Malkin is still there?" he rasped out.

"I don't—know," Rory answered hesitantly, "Possibly—" another pause, "Do you think he's involved?"

"I don't know," he said, his eyes still on the screen, "but I will find out."

He closed the line. As soon as he did, the phone started squalling again. He looked down and showed Gordon's number at the screen. The first time the commissioner calling him openly. Bruce opened it. "Gordon."

"Alfred told me what happened," Gordon started immediately, "I looked into the files. They issued an indefinite detention for her—"

Bruce's attention snapped away from the computer, "What?"

"I tried to question the warrant," Gordon continued, and Bruce felt the incoming "but" even before he said it aloud, "but they say it's national security, and cannot comment."

Derrick Malkin's words repeated in his mind… "Tell West to stay away. This's not something should get involved." So he had known, or he had suspected… Didn't matter now. He would deal with it later.

"Can you find their hide-ins in the city?" he asked, and hated what came next out of his mouth, "They need to question her first."

Gordon pretended like he didn't understand what he had meant. A safe house, a safe place, where there wouldn't be any disturbance when screams—He stopped the thought but a little too late. An image of her suddenly flashed in his mind, bounded and bloodied—in pain, screaming his name…

The world darkened—his grip loosened, he felt like he was going to throw up. When Rachel had been abducted, he had known the fear, but this was worse. Rachel's kidnap was a game, one he had lost at the end, but nevertheless it was a game. This was more than a game, and even he hated to speak of it, they were worse things to being dead. The little tidbits came from the agents' dossiers snapped in his mind…

"You're not alone in this, son, you know it, right?" Gordon said suddenly. He knew it, but it made little different. "We're going to find her," Gordon said at last, his voice determined.

They had to. If something happened to her—he stopped that thought, too. "Send me whatever you find," Bruce said in answer before closing the line. He had to find her, he had to. Or else—

* * *

When Graves took pity on her, or simply he grew tired with electricity, and left her alone for a while, Valerie finally accepted a few things. She was losing her ground, her resolves fading. Her first interpretation of her situation was correct. This was nothing she had experienced before. If she didn't find a game changer soon enough, things were going to end up badly for all of them.

Mercy had left, telling her to think carefully before she came back. She had put another set of cables on the table next to her chair to make her point, her eyes staring at her lap, between her legs.

Message was clear. Valerie pulled her legs closer in instinct, glancing at the cable. Lawton didn't miss her reaction. He walked toward her. "People always talk—eventually," he said slowly, almost conversationally, "There is no such thing as loyalty under pain."

She looked up at him. "Is it why you carry a cyanide capsule inside your molar?" she asked with a murmur.

Lawton laughed. "It's not cyanide anymore, but yes," he said, "it's why. People like us usually don't die in bed. Being killed is a part of our job."

"Or killing?" she shot back.

Smiling, he nodded. "To kill, or to be killed, that is the question," he intoned, and looked at her with heavy eyes. "You know his name, you know his story, but do you know anything about Elliot Caldwell?"

It did take quite an effort but she craned her neck dismissively, "Spare me the moral talk," she said, "I know you hate him."

He laughed again. "Yes, I do. I've always. I'd told Control; "do not create something you can't control. But she didn't understand."

"Or she thought she could," Valerie interrupted.

Lawton nodded in agreement. "People like him cannot be controlled. They create their own madness, and become something else. Then they create the world in their own imagine."

"Or the world they live in creates their madness," she retorted, recalling how Caldwell lost his family, recalling how Bruce lost his family. "You have no rights to judge them."

"Am I?" Lawton asked, titling his head and suddenly Valerie had a disturbing thought they weren't only talking about Elliot Caldwell anymore. "On the contrary, Ms. West," he said, "I do exist to judge them. The Joker, the Batman, Wrath—they're all the same, they all inspire the same folly. Someone has to stop them."

Looking at his insensate eyes, Valerie understood they weren't the only ones. This officially couldn't get worse. "I assume that someone is being you," she murmured, turning her head away.

Lawton smiled again. "Who would stop the madness of chaos other than an agent of Control?"

Her attention turned to him, and she started laughing. "You're insane."

He took a threatening step forward, and managed to be more frightening than the wires that lay dormant on the table. "And you're my captive," he told her coldly.

She inhaled sharply, then decided that she'd made a tactical mistake. These people—they were no comprise with them, and being loyal or being prideful made no difference. God, she must have grown soft. The old Valerie would have never made a mistake like that. She raised her head, and looked at his eyes directly. She let out another breath, and said, "It's Wayne. My source—It's Bruce Wayne."

As a dark gleam glowed in the depth of his eyes, Valerie told herself she hadn't done a mistake.

* * *

 _Yes, Valerie is giving away Bruce! I bet you didn't see this coming, haha!_

 _I'm quite excited for the next part even though I don't seem to be able to write it! My initial plan was to write the eventual showdown in this chapter but if I waited to finish it, we could have waited forever-forever._

 _Tell me what you think, it always motivates me._


	22. Part VI-III

**Part VI. III – The Choice**

* * *

Gotham's outskirts. Dark, forlorn streets, uninhabited. The air smelled of dust, rust, and neglect. Studying the warehouse below, Batman was still in the night, watching for a sign.

According to the files he'd cracked, there were five different possible safe houses in Gotham for DHS. Gordon hadn't returned yet any information so he started with those. He knew it was a shot in the dark, an act of desperation, he knew they were enough canny not to take her somewhere listed in their database when they discovered they had been comprised. There was no other explanation after Gordon's statement. She was put under indefinite detention for national security and that meant the agents somehow had learned that she knew about the A.R.G.E.N.T. It was his fault, Derrick Malkin was right, this wasn't something she should have gotten involved, never… The warehouse was deserted, no sign or anything but like he had done with the previous four, he tried his chances with a little hope that perhaps this time he had been wrong.

There was this prison in a forgotten land he'd heard long ago, a dark endless pit with an opening they put you inside, and each night you looked at it, and dreamed of freedom while slowly dying, because no one could know the true meaning of despair without tasting hope first. Looking at the empty hangars, Bruce had understood what it meant, each time losing a part of him to despair, in his mind an image of Valerie screaming with pain snapping—Batman was made of stone, his willpower adamant, but Bruce Wayne was a man, flesh and blood.

He walked into the fifth warehouse, anticipation and fear coursing through his veins, his long practiced stoicism nowhere to be found. He longed for and dreaded that moment at the same. Longed for taking her in his arms, crushing her in his embrace, breathing her scent deeply in, and dreaded for what he would find. He wasn't Batman now. He felt the weight of his armor, he felt sweat under the Kevlar but he didn't feel like Batman.

He strained his ear to pick up something, anything but no sound. He checked his thermal camera to be sure but there was no sign of living on the screen. Throwing his head back, he shouted out a guttural scream, his chest tearing apart.

When he returned to the bunker, Alfred was there. Tearing the cowl off his head as he walked to the computer hub, he threw it away. Alfred kept his silence, not mentioning how it'd been near to suicide to go out to the city tonight when the whole police force and the National Guards were on duty. It didn't matter. If he wasn't going to find her soon, so little things would matter again.

"Did you activate the satellite?" Bruce questioned, already checking it himself. He wouldn't have destroyed the sonar. If he hadn't, his chances would have grown astronomically. He'd wanted to do right thing, even knowing it might be a decision he would regret, he wanted to do right thing. Although practically right, he'd destroyed the sonar on principle; he'd saved the Joker on the same principle. It was what he had to do, not what he wanted to.

 _I didn't save him…_ He recalled his confession to her in Belfast. He couldn't have made the same mistake, not how much hard it was for him. He was the Batman, he could do what other people could not, he was more than a man… But…he still didn't feel like Batman… Right now it just felt like he'd done a mistake. He should have saved the sonar, he should have been prepared, he should have—

"Yes, I arranged the software to look for any disturbances," Alfred's voice cut off his dark musings, "Fox was working on a face recognition program but when he—" His words suddenly stopped.

Sitting in front of the computers, Bruce let the silence grow between them. He didn't want to think anymore, with each thought his mind was going to a darker place. If Fox was still alive, if he hadn't killed, none of this could have happened—if that man—He realized his hands fisted, tight and stiff, the muscle of his chin throbbing strongly.

His phone squalled. "Gordon," he forced out in a guttural rasp, his jaw too strained to talk easy, "Talk to me."

"I don't have much, I'm sorry," Gordon answered from the other side, his voice truly dismayed, "I've gotta go to the city center. Mayor accepted to pull back the request for National Guards for now. We might administrate a council in the City Hall."

Bruce didn't answer. The truth was that the situation didn't interest him now, not when he sat down his hands tied while Valerie was possibly being tortured out of her mind… "I asked Chief Bullock—"

His thoughts abruptly halted. "What?" he rasped, "What did you do?" Someone had betrayed them; it didn't take a genius to understand that. Despite everything, even DHS agents couldn't twist facts that long when putting someone under indefinite detention for dealing with nationality security. Derrick Malkin was a safe assumption but on principle Bruce also never trusted the safe assumptions. They were easy, in open sight but being Batman had taught him the hardest blows came from the dark, hidden in the shadows. He'd trusted Gordon's instincts when they'd put the Homicide Chief in the hospital to be a witness, and again they were betrayed. His team had been the one who had talked to Lawton and Graves about their relationship at the first time, after seeing them dancing in his birthday party. They'd followed her to Derrick Malkin. They were all circumstantial, but the connections were to palpable to miss. Gordon trusted the older man, but Gordon had also trusted Ramirez.

"I know you're upset with him after he talked to the agents," Gordon tried to explain, as if reading his mind, "But he's a good man." So was Ramirez, Bruce completed in his mind. She hadn't sold Rachel out because she was a bad person, but because she was a desperate woman.

But then, so was he, he was a desperate man. "I don't have many options," Gordon continued, "Not when whole city is in uproar. We don't even know who we could trust." And it was always the bottom line. "Bullock sent Burke and Isley to DA. They'll try to learn where she was taken to. The case was with them before Homeland Security swept it away. They still had rights. Nothing will probably come up but if they rattle the cage enough, they might slip for a second. Then we get them."

It was a long shot, but still better than the alternative. The alternative was him going on desperate mission throughout the city, beating everything that stood in his way until a wayward bullet from either the police or National Guards put him down. He reminded himself what Valerie had told him in Belfast. _Dead men cannot save anyone._ He could tear the city inside out to find her, but it couldn't save her. He would die at the end, and if it could save her, he would gladly; he would trade himself for her, but life didn't work that way. He had no option. He nodded, before closing the line with a simple, "Keep me posted."

In the silence, he sat with Alfred, his head hung, telling himself he was doing the right thing. "Sir-" Alfred said after a second. Bruce lifted his head and looked at the him. The pain and worry were etched on his face, too, but there was also a hesitance.

"Yes—" Bruce prompted.

"Mr. Allen called," Alfred said, "I asked him to come to the bunker. It seems he hasn't heard the news yet."

Bruce frowned. The last thing he wanted to do now was dealing with Jason Allen, explaining to him how he had let his daughter taken away. Somethings though was inescapable. The soft machinery of the platform hummed. Bruce understood the former guerilla had arrived. He straightened, his back stiffening, preparing himself.

The platform lift sat in its nest and Bruce looked at Jason. The man started walking toward him, his face almost expressionless, save a slight frown of wary suspicion. He even didn't react seeing him in his armor. His figure was a bit less intimidating under the bright fluorescent than it was in the gloom of the cave, nevertheless this wasn't the first reaction most people usually made seeing Batman.

"The doctor is very agitated," the older man started to fill him. It took a while for Bruce to understand what he was talking about. Doctor Quinzel. Something he couldn't bring himself care at the moment once more. "She tries to talk with City Hall but the protesters make her case difficult," Jason continued. "She's afraid his death would turn the clown into a symbol for everything that's wrong with Gotham." A sarcastic smirk pulled the corner of his lips down, "A martyr."

Again, Bruce stood expressionless. Something shifted over the older man's face, his smirk fading, the slight frown of wary suspicion growing into a full glare of distrust. "What's it?" he asked louder, walking faster, "What's happened?" Then he stopped, as if he had just realized something was _not_ indeed right, and looked around, his gaze searching, "Where is Valerie?" Bruce could taste fear in the words.

He looked back at him blankly, no words left to him. He didn't know where she was. God damn his soul to eternal agony, he didn't know where she was. He didn't know where the woman he loved was. Jason caught him at the suit's collar and yanked him closer— "Where's my daughter?"

Bruce kept his silence.

* * *

"She says Bruce Wayne is the source," Graves repeated, suspicion high in her voice, a question mark hidden behind it.

"I told you there was something amiss with him," Lawton said in response.

Valerie was glad that she wasn't the center of their attention. She needed some solitude as her mind raced to collect her scattered thoughts before they turned back to her. Standing a few feet away from her, they were talking to each other, as Lawton explained Graves her confession. There wasn't a lot to explain, though, so she knew soon they would start again talking to _her_.

Despite her best efforts, her eyes skipped toward the cables on the tables. Her heartbeat fastened, recalling Graves' words. She wondered how much it hurt being electrocuted down there. Graves had said a _lot_ , strain real and clear in her words. Valerie believed in her words. She shook her head mentally. No, it wasn't going to come to that. She had gotten beaten long enough. She was going to make sure the cables stayed where they were, the battery turned off. She steeled her mind, and concentrated on the job ahead. If she wanted to play this game and survive, she needed her wits strong, focused.

She had no other option. It hurt more than her pride to accept that it wasn't a game she could win, but denying truth seldom did anyone good. Sooner or later she was going to lose her defenses and started talking. Valerie knew her weaknesses as well as her strengthens. God damn him to hell, Lawton was right; there was no loyalty under pain. Not for people like her. Perhaps Bruce could hold his ground longer, not her. She wasn't trained for this. She wasn't ready for this. But she was _always_ prepared. If she was going to succumb, she was at least going to do it on her goddamn conditions.

Because there was another thing she had accepted too. No rescue was coming up, not in the right time anyway. Perhaps Bruce would find this shit hole but when? How long she could endure this? If they put a wire inside her and charged up the battery, she was done, simple as that. The notion was enough to make her shit in her pants, but there was a more terrifying outcome after that. After the torture, her barriers would be shattered down, her mind so taken up by pain, no thought left to her. What she could tell then? No…no, she couldn't let that happen. She had no option.

"Prepare a team and go collect him," Lawton ordered to his redhead deputy. Valerie almost let out a scream of trump. _Yes, get the fucking Batman, you idiots,_ she yelled mentally. If Batman couldn't find her, then the most logical was to make them to get him to her.

Jason, in one of those unique times that he'd been playing the good daddy, had advised her to sell him out if there was no other option she could think of in the case of captivity. _Buy yourself time_ , he'd said, _when they come, I'll be ready._

She could only hope he remembered his own advice now.

Graves gave the other agent a look. "You?"

"I'll talk to her," Lawton declared sternly.

Joy. Well, at least, Lawton was a less enthusiastic…conversationalist than his teammate. Graves' eyes drew to her for a second before she turned and left the warehouse. Valerie looked at the man who had been looking for her dead or alive for months. A dead-set, decisive mind, focused exclusively on his missions, Valerie passed in her mind what the dossier said about him. Codenamed, _Deadshot_ , because he never missed. The files didn't mention a lot, but she grasped there was more to this man than being—single-minded with a good aim. Some hidden insanity, crazily focused, too. She remembered the way his hands brushed over her necks. He seemed like an obsessed man. Before she had believed he was obsessing with finding Batman, but now she wasn't for sure of it anymore.

The man walked back near to her, his hands shoved into his pockets, and stood standing towering above her. The pose clearly was to intimidate her, and it _did_ intimidate her, but she still held her ground, not giving in to the urge to flinch back. Tied at the chair, she sat motionlessly, staring at him back.

"He gave you the folder," Lawton repeated what she'd said the last before Mercy had come back to the warehouse, "but you don't know from where he's found it."

She smiled. "I know where he's found it," she said in return, the bloodied corner of lips turning up an inch. It hurt, but she didn't grimace, "He hacked into your servers, found your dossiers."

A brief confusion passed over his face before he hid it but Valerie saw it. Yes, just like that. She could imagine it in his head. Bruce Wayne, the man he'd always regarded with a profound suspicion also doing that to them, hacking into serves… She smiled wider through cracked lips. "Yeah, you always know there is _something_ with the bored billionaire."

Her words were cryptic, but his reaction was not. His face distorted with a sudden anger, he closed in on her and grabbed her neck. He drove her head back, his fingers tightening around her windpipe. "Who are you?" he bellowed at her face.

"Who I am is trivial," she hissed back through strained throat, "Don't you want to learn who _he_ is?"

His hands tightened more. She coughed with blood. He screamed, "Who?"

Her eyes found his, and she stared at him down before rasping out in whisper. "Batman."

* * *

The heavy fist jabbed at his chin with a loud crack. Bruce swayed on his feet for a second with the force of the blow before he straightened and looked at Jason.

Not cooling down an inch even after his punch, the former guerilla shouted at his face, "How do you mean you don't know where she's?" Bruce wiped the blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. There were more than one hundred ways that he could think of to stop the attack but Bruce had chosen to stay motionlessly. He'd deserved it. "My daughter's kidnapped by Homeland Security," Jason yelled, coming toward him for another punch, "and you don't have any fucking idea where she is!"

Again, Bruce stood rigidly, his hands tightly against his sides, immovable. In fact, the punch made him a feel better with himself. He deserved it, he failed. He failed her. Before Jason attacked him again, Alfred got into between them. Gently but sternly Alfred pushed the agitated man away. Bruce still stayed motionless. Alfred held the man before he came back toward him again. "I warned you before in Belfast," Jason yelled over Alfred, his arm pointing at him over Alfred's shoulder, "I told you if you hurt her—"

The words snapped something in his insides. "I'm not hurting her!" he rasped out in a guttural whisper, voice like steel, "I—"

"You do—everything you do is hurting her—" he exclaimed. "She's become an extension of you but you're so wrapped in your own you don't even see it."

His jaw throbbed, this time not because of the jab. "It's her own, too." It was. It was her life, too, she had a place here, she belonged to his life. But the problem was that it was hurting her. Jason was right on that regard. He might be not hurting her, but his life, his choices were hurting her. They were torturing her.

"No, it's not," Jason snarled back, taking a step backward from Alfred's clutch, suddenly cooled down. He stayed silent for a second before he shook his head. He looked old then, older than he was, older than he seemed. Like Valerie, Jason Allen was a force of nature, too, unhinged and unpredictable, but as of the moment, he looked like an old man who had seen the worst of the world. "I know your kind, Bruce Wayne—" His voice was toned down, almost in resignation, "One day you'll have to make a choice and we both know what you'll choose when that time comes."

A choice. Jason's words couldn't be any clearer but Bruce found himself not having any direct answer, other than the only truth he had, "I love her," he whispered.

"I never said you don't," Jason said in return. He let out a sigh and dropped down on a stool by the bench, "What's your plan?" he asked the next.

Bruce recognized the peace offering. Jason was still angry with him, but he wasn't going to spend time fighting with him. With each minute they lost, she became closer— He left the thought unsaid, couldn't even bring himself to think of it. He turned to the computer hub. "The satellite located several slight disturbances over the north." He pointed the northern side of Gotham map over the screen, "I'm gonna check them."

"Slight disturbances?" Jason sneered with venom, pointing at the screen, "The whole fucking city is at uproar, Wayne, and are you after slight disturbances?"

He grimaced. "Yes," he forced out, "They wouldn't take her toward heated sections of the city."

Jason shook his head. "It's a vain chase," he retorted, "You only do it to do something."

"What else do you prefer me to do?" Bruce snapped, because the words more than anything was true. He had told Gordon he would wait, going out in the city in this conditions were suicidal, but if he stayed with Jason a minute longer he could lose his mind completely. He inhaled sharply. "Gordon sent a team to the DA office. They must have a rat in the office—"

"No—" Jason's voice stopped him. He turned around. "No—you're wasting time. How much time has passed since her disappearance?"

Bruce swallowed. "Four hours."

"Four hours—" Jason repeated under his breath, "By the time you found her, she'd be already broken down. She can't hold her ground that long."

"She would try," Bruce rasped out. She would. She would prefer die first before selling him out. The moment the thought entered in his mind, another flashed—The sly voices shifting, suspicion tainting his belief. He trusted her, he trusted her with everything but—

Jason heaved out a deep sigh. "And you claim you love her," Jason murmured. Bruce sharply looked at him. "No, she can't, and she knew she couldn't, either," Jason told him slowly.

His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"My daughter is smart, Wayne," he replied, "She knows not to pick up fights she can't win." He jumped down from his stool and walked to him. "Prepare yourself."

"For what?" Bruce asked, his eyebrows clenching further.

"For capture," the other man declared, "She's sold you out."

* * *

Hands and feet still tied, she sat in her seat like a queen. Lawton was pacing in front of her as she watched him serenely although her insides were in a deep turmoil. It was hard to keep up the appearance but as of the moment it was her everything. If she slipped, even for an inch, she knew she would never regain her ground. She already did it once with Jason, she could do it with this man too. Well, at least she hoped she could, because otherwise they were both in deep shit. She told herself again she hadn't made a mistake. The problem with Lawton wasn't what he didn't know but what he knew. Jason didn't know anything about Batman or Bruce but Lawton knew a lot. "How you got involved with it?" he growled out, striding fast toward her.

She reduced her fastened heartbeat before she talked, "He brought me in," she said, "Sometimes he needs help." She paused, praying ferociously inside that she wasn't shooting at her own feet, "He had another before," she said, "but she left or something. I don't know the details. He doesn't talk much about it."

Lawton was in silence for a while, then his eyes turned toward her. "Cameron Reese," he said, as if he had just placed a missing part of the puzzle, "You started to work for him after Cameron Reese's death."

Her insides making flip flops, she shrugged. "He just told me sometimes he needs help." His eyes stared at her, narrowed with trepidation. Valerie didn't run them away. It was more than dangerous, she came to her already too familiar, but he couldn't connect the dots, she assured herself. Cameron Reese was dead. He'd seen it with his own eyes. He saw her dead, had checked her pulse.

"So he's—Batman?" Lawton finally asked openly.

She forced out a laugh. "No," she said, laughing, "Of course not—" She paused for a second, "He's just a bored billionaire." Lawton's expression again turned to steel. She hurriedly spoke before he could say anything, better not to give him any time to think—

"There is no Batman," she declared, "Well, at least there isn't _one_ Batman, but many of them. The Operation Bat." His look turned graver, but she could see his mind racing. She smiled wider, pouring off all the arrogance she could muster in her gesture, "A CIA black op program—Gotham's their proving ground."

Quick as a bolt, he strode toward her, and leaned over her, holding her tied hands over the chair's arm supports. "No such program exists!"

"Like how Task Force X doesn't exist?" she shot back, "Or the A.R.G.E.N.T?"

There it was. The first suspicion—just under his eyes. He got it. Her insides screamed with joy as he pulled back. "What's Bruce Wayne's involvement?" he inquired.

She was ready for that. "Wayne Enterprises has military contracts before it was shut down. He prepares technological equipment for them from prototypes."

Staying silent, he studied her carefully for a long moment. She really wanted to run away her eyes, but each time she forced herself to look at him back. His eyes followed a trail of sweat over her forehead down to her neck. She could feel his gaze over her neck, then it shifted below. Suddenly, she wondered how she looked. Tied, sweaty, bloodied, she was sure she looked like hell, but some people found it—exciting. A sudden shudder passed through her back, being more aware of the bonds over her wrists. During their time together, she hadn't worried about _that_ , but now, as he looked at her with that look, the fear raised in her stomach. She cast a glance below and checked herself, gladly see that he _couldn't_ do her anything in this position. If they were going to go down that path he was going to have to untie her first. It wasn't a comforting thought much, he was a trained warrior whereas she was a smartass street fighter, but she had picked up a few things from Bruce too. Her chances weren't high, but it was better than anything.

But he couldn't do that, she told herself the next second. Obsessed as he was, he was a professional. A professional would torture you to death but wouldn't rape you. Or she hoped. She shuddered again. "Why you've become so timid suddenly?" Lawton asked at last.

Valerie inhaled slowly. "I like Wayne. He's gorgeous, rich and a bit crazy but it's not worth it." She paused before she declared for the last, a small smile pulling her lips. "Besides, you won't tell anyone."

There was a pause between them as he stared at her once again. Valerie wished he stopped doing it. "Am I not?" the man asked slowly.

She shook her head. "I'm here just because I discovered A.R.G.E.N.T. What do you think CIA will do when you come forward? What Control would have you to do if your positions were reversed?" she asked, and continued before he could answer, "CIA isn't even supposed to operate on US soils."

There again the look of suspicion and doubt. He knew she was right. If there had been really anything like the Operation Bat, it would have been the exact outcome. The secret programs protected their secrets religiously. She went for the finale blow. "The program went to south when one of the Bats accidentally killed Harvey Dent," she spoke in dead seriousness, "They washed their hands off it and they sent Homeland Security to do their dirty work. There's only this one rogue on the loose and soon he's gonna get himself killed…" She paused again before she finished, "Why would you take the risk?"

He stayed silent but she knew the same question turned rapidly in his mind. She sat silently this time, waiting for him to come the same conclusion. He wouldn't take the risk, he was a smart man, she was depending on it. Mercy would come any minute with Bruce, then they would be free. The future, they would need to find a way out of it, for now she was only focused on getting off this damn chair in one piece. "You're not lying," Lawton said after a while, "No one could spin all of this out of nothing-"

She smiled. He looked at her sharply. "But it doesn't mean you're exactly being truthful, either," he finished. Her smiled dropped.

"I'm not lying," she defended herself.

"Like I said," Lawton said, "You're not." He walked toward her. "But there are many ways to twist the facts, twist the truth. Lying by omission." Her breath labored, her heart pounding in her ears. "I'm trained to assort them from each other. Your lips don't lie, but your body do." She cursed mentally, "You try to look at me back, hold my gaze but you try too hard. You sit on that chair like a queen, but sweat run over your skin. You look fearless, but you shudder." He reached out and touched her skin. She trembled. Closing her eyes, she bit her lip. Lawton laughed. "You're not lying, but you're hiding something." Turning her head away, she opened her eyes.

His hand caught her chin tightly and turned her head toward him. "What's it!" he ordered with a deep rasp. She felt tears prick her eyes, her chest too tight. His fingers dug into her skin deeper, drawing her head backward, "I can force it out of you," he whispered over her ear, still looking at her, "but it'd be very unpleasant."

Tears followed down. "I—I—don't—" she stammered.

"Wrong answer," he bellowed in the silence of the warehouse as his hand reached to the cable on the table. She screamed. Grasping it, his other hand left her chin and trailed downward. She trashed over her chair as his hands opened her pants zipper. She screamed more, crying more, trying to clutch her legs together. To rape her, he might need to untie her, but he was too much of a professional to do that. He grabbed her roughly at hips and split off her legs. She continued screaming. His fingers dived under her pants. "No—no—please, please don't—" she cried—begged as she felt the coldness of the wires, his fingers finding her entrance. As she shouted another guttural howl, he forced them inside her.

His hands pulled back. "What are you hiding?" he asked, reaching out to the battery.

She gave out with a long wail, crying openly. "I'm asking the last time," he bellowed over her screams, "What's it?"

Before his hand found the switch, she screamed, "I'M CAMERON REESE!"

* * *

 _Uh, the last scene grew more than I first planned, but I'm trying to keep this realistic as possible, you know, she's being *really* questioned. Otherwise I wouldn't have placed her in this situation just because to have Bruce come save her, then keep her in his embrace as she weeps... Not my cup of tea :) As you can see Bruce is deeply conflicted, he doesn't even aware that Valerie would talk-_

 _This chapter is being one of those chapters just won't end. I swore in this we'll see the showdown but-plans, plans... They never go according to the plan :p_

 _Hopefully the next time, there will be a Bruce/Valerie reunion. (There might be some weeping in his embrace, though ;)_

 _Until then, please don't neglect to review. As I told million times before, they make me write faster._


	23. Part VI-IV

**Part VI. IV – "The Dream"**

* * *

The words hit him harder than his fists. Bruce stared at Jason, words still ringing... S _he's sold you out._

The moment was like a waking up from a nightmare into a darkness that was of tensed silence. It took a while adjusting to reality. His reality was her feelings. She couldn't betray him. She loved him, even though they hadn't exchanged the words, he knew she did. She was a fighter, too, defiant by nature. She didn't accept defeat without fighting first. She was a survivor, she always found a way out, but Jason was wrong. He didn't know his daughter better than Bruce. That was the root cause all of their problems. Jason had never truly understood her loyalty or her bravery.

If it came down to choose between her life or him, Bruce knew what her choice would be. At that moment Bruce also realized she couldn't sit and accept questioning without fighting back, either. No, she would fight back. In a way, Jason's amiss words were also accurate. A small, ghost of smirk briefly passed over his face. Bruce now knew how exactly she was fighting back.

"No—" he rejected looking directly at the older man, "No, she didn't sell me out." He quickly walked toward to work station where Alfred was still monitoring screens, "She's stalling."

"Wayne—" Jason started but Bruce cut him off.

"Do you remember Operation Bat?"

Jason's eyes lightened sharply. "Do you think she's working on that?"

"She prepared it in case that she gets questioned," Bruce answered, and turned to Alfred, "Alfred, show me City Hall." Alfred gave him a blank look, Bruce half turned to Jason to add, "it worked on you."

Jason ignored his last remark but asked instead, "Do you think she'll play you as the primary asset of a covert black ops program?"

Bruce shrugged, looking at the screens. The City Council holding a meeting, the City Hall was cooled down, but only slightly. The majestic entrance, the grand marble steps were still full of people shouting slogans, asking for the head of Mayor under the big banner of Unheards. They were at everyone, spread like a wild fire, their heat rising with each shouted "Our Voice Will Be Heard".

The riot would provide him some cover. If he's going to let them take him, the city center looked like the best ground for it. The perimeters were already set by the National Guards and GCPD. The agents wouldn't bring massive task force to pack him up. They'd choose to deal with it discreetly. A plan formed in his mind. It was risky beyond belief but if he could, if he could manage to turn the tables on them and capture Lawton or Graves then he would find where they'd taken to Valerie. It was the only option. He had to find her. He had to save her. He looked at Alfred, and inquired, "My tracking device is running?"

The last resort. In case that his plan didn't work. He'd applied it under his skin after what had happened with the first fear attack. He should have given Valerie an injection like that, too. He hadn't wanted to make her live in the glass house he'd made for her more than she'd already. She was wearing her bracelet and it should have been enough. Only, it wasn't. Another mistake, another failure.

"It's good to go, Master Wayne," Alfred supplied for him, the concern as clear in his tone as the sky outside. It was a clear night, starless, cold and heavy with tension. Somehow it suited.

He nodded and turned to Jason. "Follow me," he instructed, but kept him dark about the plan. He had an intuition that the former guerilla wouldn't approve it. "If something happens to me—" he continued but Jason didn't let him finish it.

"I will save her," the older man said with a conviction that eased his heart a bit more.

Even if he lost, Valerie still wouldn't be alone.

* * *

In the dark alley, Mercy Graves looked at Control. The woman was uncharacteristically quiet for almost a minute, and it made Mercy's nerves stood up more than necessary. "Ma'am," she urged in a slow low voice.

Control cut her off with a rising hand. "I was right about it," the older woman spoke, but it sounded more to herself, "I've always suspected about it. It seemed out of reach for only one man doing all of this."

Mercy nodded. Most of times she felt the same. "Lawton—" she started but Control cut her off again.

"Forget him," Control hissed, "The last thing we need is now getting involved with CIA's business." She paused another second, "Catching Batman has never been your mission, Mercy," she said, "Proceed with your mission."

Then there was only one thing to ask. "What about Lawton?" she inquired, even though she already could guess Control's answer. Her job descriptions didn't cover assumption but always asking for her orders. Control had taught her well. Something she couldn't do with Floyd—neither with Elliot. "He's grown a little—obsessed with Batman."

Control looked at coldly. "Doesn't he always?" she said back, but again it was more to herself than Mercy, so Mercy didn't answer. Control titled her head at her. "You have your order, soldier. Proceed."

* * *

Surrounded by the crowd, Bruce waited. He stationed at the upper steps of great entrance from where he could watch over a big part of the square. It wasn't the best but still better than the alternative. From his vantage point, no one would approach him unawares at least.

Below at the left corner a stir caught his attention. He quickly turned aside and observed. A teenage boy had started arguing with the riot police. The boy under the Unheards banner looked familiar—Bubble Gum! He recognized the slum kid. He squinted and saw that Bastard Dan was also with him. They marched forward further, hitting the police's long shields. The crowd followed their example and before long the moment became more violent.

From the back, someone shouted a battle cry and swung up a Molotov.

Even from the distance between them, the explosion banged in his ears. He quickly got cover and surveyed the area. Where was Rory? He'd left him to prevent such happenings. But what one man could do? He could fight crime, fight injustice but he couldn't stop a riot.

With the last act, the police and National Guards moved forward. The air was so dense with tension it would explode any moment even without any explosive. The shouts became louder and louder so the curses. Bruce wounded up over one of the great columns and started climbing down toward the square. His priority was Valerie. Somewhere in this boiling hive there was someone who would bring him to her. He circled the area, making himself a more open target.

He walked around, dodging and ditching, fending off the crowd. He checked his watch. Almost half an hour had passed since he'd come to City Hall. They must have already spotted him. Removing someone from such a crowd was always troubled, but he'd thought the DHS agents wouldn't mind trouble. Was he wrong in his assumptions? Perhaps he didn't worth it.

Perhaps he thought it didn't worth it. Perhaps they'd already killed—

He stopped the thought even before it was finished. No. No. They didn't. He'd seen Lawton's eyes. The way he'd questioned him about Cameron Reese, the way he searched Batman. He wouldn't let it go. There was still time. There was still hope.

Only no one was coming up. He checked his watch again. 40 minutes.

They had lost almost two hours now. Six hours, almost six hours, Valerie was lost. Almost six hours she was under questioning. All clamor around him hushed into a sudden silence, or he had become deaf to the world, he didn't know. The only thing he knew was Valerie, that he was missing her for six hours, six hours of terror… The images ran over in his mind one after another, each worse than the last… His fingers drew blood from his palms.

Where were they? He was here, open in the battle field, waiting. Where were they?

"No one will come, Mr. Wayne," a voice broke the silence around him and brought him back to the world, "I'm sorry. It's for naught."

His back straightened, a cold fire rose in his veins. He'd recognized the voice.

* * *

In the dark, Valerie dreamed.

 _She listens the sounds of water, it calms her. It's a secluded beach, untouched by the vileness of earth… She couldn't believe such places exist. But they do. Bruce had found one. It feels like a miracle. Their miracle. She stands, leaning over Bruce as water hit over her ankles gently. They're alone, only two souls in the world. They prefer that way. What else do they need? They got each other and— His hands go to her stomach, and he caresses. So gentle, so kind; gentle hands, kind soul. She feels a stir inside—barely there but certain like sun above… Bruce looks up at her with amazement, and then he smiles. She sees the light._

Valerie opened her eyes to the darkness. It took a while to realize where she was after the bizarre dream, but when she did, the reality all turned back to her even worse, every muscle in her body aching, twisting, trembling. She swallowed a cry through tight throat. It was dry as fallen leaves, making even swallowing such a hard job. She must have slipped off at the end. There was a limit her body would take after all. How much time had passed? She wasn't sure anymore. She only knew dark now. The dream she didn't know. But she wished to be there, with Bruce. They were happy. The details of the dream were fuzzy but that she remembered. She had no idea from where it had come from, but she didn't care, either. Now inside her she only felt the coldness of metal. Oh yes, it was _still_ inside her. Lawton had decided that she had a more open mind with the damn thing inside her. She was going to kill him. When she was free, when she got off this chair, she was going to kill him.

The man in question came out of nowhere as if he'd felt her awakening. "Welcome back," he greeted her, "I told you it'd be very unpleasant if you deny me."

Then she remembered. Her heartbeat fastened, causing her injuries aching worse. He'd—electrocuted her until she passed out, and she'd talked. Everything was a mess, but that much she remembered enough. With tears, curses, and screams, she'd talked. She'd told him everything.

Snapshots darted in and out of her abused mind. _"I'm Cameron Reese—He's Batman! Stop it! God, please, stop it!"_ It couldn't be true! She couldn't talk. She couldn't betray. She loved Bruce… She loved… It was a nightmare…

"No—" she whispered out, shaking her head, tears leaking out, "No…It's not real."

"It's the drugs," Lawton supplied, pointing with his head at the table, "It confuses mind, but eases the tongue. And pain does the rest."

She looked up at him with all the hatred she felt. "I'm going to kill you at the most painful way," she hissed in a deep grumble. Her voice was slow but certain.

Lawton though only laughed. "I admire your spirit, Ms. West," the agent said back, "Perhaps Control really should recruit you."

"You couldn't afford it," she spat the same thing she'd given to his superior.

The agent smiled. "Well, after a billionaire, yes, we might not." He paused for a second, "Tell me more about him," he ordered, "Why he's doing it?"

She gave him a look like poison. "Does it matter?"

Lawton considered her question before he answered, "No, I suppose not." A motor's sound echoed outside. The former spy's attention drew back at it, then he turned to her. Valerie saw a little smile playing over his lips. The excitement almost reeked off of him. Bile churned through in her stomach. She almost threw up. "There he comes."

She hung her head, another thing stirring in her stomach. She remembered her dream… the stir in her stomach, the light, his smile… God, what she'd done! What she'd done!

She started screaming for her whole being. A slap exploded at her cheek. She saw stars. "Hush," Lawton hissed at her, "it's too late now."

Too late. Too late… The warehouse's metal door opened with a slow crack, and Agent Graves walked in, but no one followed. Her chest tightened but she couldn't decide the reason. She was relieved that Bruce wasn't in this nightmare now but if he hadn't come then it meant— Her chest ached so much for a minute she thought someone electrocuted her again.

"Where is Wayne?" Lawton asked, looking at Graves.

"I don't know," the female agent replied evenly, "I couldn't find him. He didn't show up anywhere." She cast at her a glance. "I guess he slipped off when he understood she got captured."

Lawton shook his head. Valerie did the same mentally. Impossible. He couldn't give up on her. He loved her. He'd never told it but he loved her. He wanted her to be in his life. He told her she belonged to his life. He'd already saved her before. He couldn't let her go now. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. There must be something else. Perhaps he had another plan. Perhaps they couldn't presume she would talk…

Perhaps he didn't believe she would take. He trusted her. He believed in her. "Either way, I talked to Control," Graves continued. Valerie turned up at her. "She doesn't want us to get involved with CIA."

Lawton laughed. "There is no CIA," he remarked, "She lied."

"What?"

"She lied," Lawton repeated, "It's Bruce Wayne. It's been him all along the way." Then he started retelling the tale.

When he finished, Graves stayed in silence for a while. Valerie felt—empty. It'd took more than half an hour explaining the whole story but they were still alone. She was still alone with these monsters. Where was Bruce? What he wasn't coming? Why he wasn't saving her?

The dark thoughts swiveled in her mind, thoughts she never wanted to acknowledge fully but always knew deep down. She wasn't his priority. She'd never been. She was just a school project, a substitution for all the things he'd lost, a mere replacement.

Graves slowly shook her head, and said finally, "It matters not. We should focus on our mission, Floyd."

Quick as a bolt, Lawton stepped in to her. "Finding Batman is our mission," he rasped out, "Before _he_ came back—"

"That never has been my mission, Floyd," Graves cut him off coldly, and suddenly saw again the woman had been torturing her again with a glint in her eyes. "It was yours, and Control had given you another one now." She looked at him hardly. "Let it go."

Lawton took a step back, his brows furrowing. Valerie turned her attention to them from her dark musings. Something was amiss. She didn't know what but she'd seen the way Lawton's body reacted.

"It was her, wasn't it?" he asked, "I was wondering how that list had come up with Malkin. Control had it."

Graves nodded. "We heard the rumors," she said, "A ghost stirring—"

"You didn't take my words." It wasn't a question, but it wasn't a statement either. Lawton's eyes were even colder now with blue.

"There was no body," Graves retorted with backing down.

The agents grew stone. "So it was your plan," he said, and once again it wasn't a question. "You leaked the list and started waiting who would come for it."

Graves smiled. "Elliot has been always obsessed with his parent's deaths. If he heard about the list, he wouldn't let it go." She stopped for a moment. "We only didn't calculate in the Mayor's meddling. He killed the investigation, made Malkin quit, then he decided to use it for his own ends. Stupid old fag," she spat, "He doesn't know what he's playing with."

"And apprehending Batman was our cover?" Lawton asked coldly.

A dry smile pulled up the female's agent's lips. "Well, Control wouldn't tell them her best shot had missed, would she?" she answered, then swung a glance at her. "She doesn't know anything. We don't need her anymore."

"She's key to Batman."

"No one cares for Batman!" Graves shouted, "He's a lunatic who is gonna get himself killed. Let it go, Floyd. Elliot is the one we need to get. He's still somewhere out there."

"No."

Graves looked at him in resignation, heaving a breath, "I was afraid you'd say that." Her hand rose with a gun, but it looked like Lawton already were expecting that.

Valerie wasn't surprised. Lawton blocked the woman's arm at the wrist, causing the gun fired at the wall just beside her. She evaded the bullet, throwing herself to the left as much as she could. Straightening back, she started pulling her ties desperately but her last experiences had already told her it was a naught exercise. There were tight as ever. She didn't give up though, pulled them with all of her might, never pausing even when the wounds over her skins deepened and opened up fully. Blood started slithering over her skin. She couldn't stop. It was her last chance. If she couldn't find a way to escape while those maniacs fight to each other, she would lose at the end no matter who won. For both, she was at the losing side.

A punch from Lawton threw Graves at the farthest corner. Valerie quickened her efforts. She started slipping off her feet from her ankle boots. If she could free her feet then she might also free her legs, then she could at least throw some kicks. She forced her right foot out of her boot but it was relativity easy, the challenging part was going to be freeing her leg.

Thank god, she'd never stopped floor exercises. She rose herself over the waist and pulled up her bent knee. Another punch came this time from Graves. Lawton snarled with a rough rasp. Looking at them, her eyes caught the razor swing blade that just had dropped from Graves. Towards her seat.

She wanted to cry. She extended her leg, rising herself again as much as bonds let her, and slipped over the chair. Her tiptoes touched the blade. She cried out a victorious laugh mentally. She slid it over back to her, curling her toes around it. When it neared to her, she grabbed it with her foot. She felt the burning cut over her skin with blade, but it was a good feeling. She curled up her leg and rested her leg over her knee. She leaned forward, bringing her left hand closer to her foot until her fingertips brushed the blade, too. She raised her leg higher, the muscle in her calves burning with pain but it was so close—so close.

There she got it. She clutched the blade in her hand. She lifted her head and saw that Lawton had Graves under him, his hands over her throat.

Madly she started cutting her ties over her wrist, together with her skin. Graves coughed with rough screams, her legs and arms failing around, trying to catch Lawton but it was no use. Lawton had her in a good grip. It was stupid of her coming here alone, Valerie decided. She wasn't going to make the same mistake.

Freeing her left hand, she launched at the right one. Her eyes darted between her wrist and Graves's fraying figure. Her moves became even more desperate. It was her last chance. No one was going to save her, she understood now. She needed no one, too. She saved herself, always.

Graves shouted a last scream, her bonds fell.

Graves was dead, Valerie was free.

She stood up from the dreaded chair, pulling the wires out of her. She bolted toward the door with bare feet.

Bloodied and staggering, Lawton tried to catch her but she dodged at the last moment. She threw herself at the door, clutching the handle madly, but it was of course locked. Tears wetted her eyes. Lawton laughed behind her. She looked back over her shoulder.

"Look at us now—" he said, advancing toward her, a smile over his lips edged like a glint in his eyes. Turning around, she lifted her hand. The razor blade caught the moonlight in the dark. "All alone," he said, smiling further.

She tilted her head up on a challenge, ready to tell him that she had always been alone. But before she could, a loud crack burst in her ears, moonlight exploded into million little pieces, and a deep, thunder-like growl bellowed, as she closed her eyes, "She's NOT alone!"

When she opened them, Batman stood between them all in his glory.

Tears falling, Valerie smiled.

* * *

For all his life, Bruce would never forget the way she smiled at him. She was bloodied, hurt and tortured, it was clear but she was alive, breathing, smiling at him.

Relief elevated him to another plane of being. She was alive, she was on her feet, still fighting. They didn't break her. But they hurt her. They tortured her. Anger was like a fire. It swept over him. With a rough, fierce cry, he launched at the man in front of him.

Lawton stepped back at the unhinged fury of Batman. Batman didn't. Fist, fist, kick and kick, he drew him at the other side of the warehouse. The world of a blur, a hazy red that was covering his armor. He'd beat her like this, he wondered.

His fist exploded at his chin. He split blood with his teeth. Lawton stood up but he caught him off his feet then threw him out to the left side. Then his eyes caught the chair. The bonds laying over the ground. Drops of blood—the wires—tied to the battery on the table next to the chair.

Another growl ripped itself out of him. For a moment, he felt like a beast came out of inside him again, the same beast he had caught the Joker long ago in a locked room like this. He caught again the man in front of him at his collar and held him against the wall. His punches fell, one after another, one after another, in his mind images snapping—

"Bruce!" her voice shouted, "Bruce, stop!" he heard it the second time, "You're going to kill him."

Kill him! He needed to die… He needed to—His fisted hand rose—just above his face. The man was looking at him coldly, as if expecting it. Eyes—one dead, one cold, deep inside he saw madness, just another kind of. With another cry, he punched the wall next to Lawton with all of his force and dropped him down. He fell, unconscious.

Cast off stone, he looked at the man in front of his feet, breathing deeply. So close, he was so close. He wanted to kill him so badly. So badly. She limped to his side, and held his armored arm. "I wanted to kill him, too," she confessed in a deep, low voice, her eyes cast down, looking at the former spy.

Without a word, Bruce nodded. He turned toward her. She was alive. God, she was alive. She was near to him—his hand raised and touched her cheek. Her smile blossomed again. "Are you okay?" he rasped out.

She drew closer and hugged him. She felt her heat even through the armor between. "I'm now," she whispered in his ear. "I—I thought—" her voice broke off.

Craning his neck down, he looked at her. "What did you think?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter now," she said, tears shinning in her eyes. "I dreamed of you—of us—" She threw herself against him again, her arms clutching him hard. "It matter not. You're here now."

Yes, they were here, both of them, alive. The question now was what they were going to do with him?

His eyes skid to the man lying on the ground, the question turning in his mind as Valerie held him tightly.


	24. Part VII-I

**Part VII. I – "The God of Light and Dark"**

* * *

Her grip on him was tight. She couldn't let him go, not even an inch. She belonged to him. Her hand crawled toward his covered head and she caressed his mask. She'd thought he had given up on her, had let her go. Such stupidity. It shamed her now even thinking of it. His love, his trust, his faith—they were unbreakable. He was indestructible.

She, on the other, wasn't. She was fragile, she was broken. She'd talked, she'd betrayed him. "I'm sorry—" she chanted as if it'd make a difference, "Bruce, I'm so sorry…" It wouldn't. Nothing would change what she had done. Nothing would make it better.

Breaking his embrace was a struggle. Outside his arms lay a reality she didn't want to face with. In his arms, everything was simple, uncomplicated. She was safe, protected. The hard Kevlar of his armor gave her strength, the feel of it, pressing hardly against her ribs. Her eyes drawing to his, she saw him watching the man lying over their feet. The man who knew everything. The sight was enough to shaken the bubble of safety he'd created. He had to know. Bruce must know with what they were facing now. She took a step back, and confessed, "I—I talked." Words felt like ashes over her tongue.

Cast of black granite, he was silent, watchful but unjudging. His eyes were heavy. She hid her head and escaped from them before she continued, because she couldn't look at him directly. "I tried to sell him Operation Bat but he understood I'm hiding something—" She paused, swallowing, her throat so tight she couldn't make it aloud, "I told him everything," she scratched out in a whisper, "He knows about us."

His expression still remained same, carved out of stone, as he nodded. "We'll think about it later—" He took her arm, "We need to move now."

Action, yes. They needed action. It put everything into perspective, a perspective she could deal with. The question remained like a living, breathing thing between them, but she didn't ask. She didn't want to ask. She didn't want to make it real. She recalled the way Bruce's fists fell on the man just minutes ago… Perhaps she just should have let him. He deserved to die. She looked down at Lawton again, images causing a swirl in her mind, close to a maelstrom that consisted of hatred and violence. He deserved to die—but they were better than that. They were better than _him_. "What do we do with him?" she forced herself to ask.

For a minute or so, even Batman looked torn, like he couldn't decide. The only time someone had unraveled his identity had been her and looked at how that had turned out? Briefly, like a passing thought, she wondered if he regretted it now, but then chased away the thought even before she could form an answer. No, she didn't want to think about that, either. "Bruce?" she urged instead.

His eyes found hers and it looked like he'd made a decision. "We take him to the bunker," he said, leaning down to pull the agent up.

The bunker. They could hold him there for a while, but how long? The Control was going to discover what happened soon. Graves dead, Lawton was the only one who could give her the answers that she would certainly need. Without saying anything in return, Valerie followed him to the exit. She really didn't want to think anymore. If felt as though she was walking through a dream, a dream that was happening to someone else. She remembered her dream. The happiness she had felt there seemed so far away now, unreachable. She didn't know exactly why it upset her this much, like something had been plucked out of her. She'd never cared about being happy, being with him was always enough and a normal life… No, normal life didn't suit her, she'd tried—and a child—no—no—she didn't deserve one, not after what she had done to her baby before. It was just a dream, she told herself evenly, a dream that her abused mind had worked out to protect itself, nothing more. Everyone had dreams, but the reality was far from different than that. Her eyes caught the unconscious man in Bruce's grip. Thinking on it, it seemed even bizarre to have such dreams when they needed to fight with such evil. It only happened in stories. Life wasn't a fairy tale. She'd lived long enough to learn that.

The small warehouse was in a dark alley, hid by the main sight. Traffic was sporadic, too, but every now and then she could hear the faint echo of cars' motors passing by. She wasn't surprised. The DHS agents knew their job well. In a dark corner, there was a black van. Bruce took a switch from his gauntlet and unlocked the vehicle. He opened the doors backside and threw Lawton inside. He bound the man's hands with zip ties then closed the doors and locked it outside. Valerie looked at him, suddenly realizing clearly it was Batman who stood in front of her, not Bruce Wayne, and what that meant. Somehow he'd found the warehouse on his own.

Perhaps Graves had lied. Perhaps she hadn't even looked for Bruce. She didn't want to speculate, so she asked when they sat in the van. "How did you find me? Did you follow Graves?"

Bruce shook his head. Her brows furrowed. "Jason surmised you'd give me away to lure them to get me, but I knew you'd try Operation Bat first." He paused for a second and she swallowed hard, running her eyes away. Again, she couldn't look at him. He took off his cowl and set it down next to the gear. Valerie wondered if he'd done it for her sake. Seeing his face always made her more relaxed in his presence. His armor, the hard titanium fiber gave her strength but it was Bruce who made her feel safe, not Batman.

"Valerie, it's okay," he said, taking the highway, "I don't blame you. You shouldn't be here. I—I—" His eyes glued on the road, his attention was solely focused ahead—like he couldn't look at her, either. "I should've protected you," he whispered out at least.

For a moment, she almost laughed. The irony made her sick, but would she call it unexpected? No, not really. Here once again they were in a loop; both blaming themselves for her betrayal. "This isn't your fault. You didn't do it."

"I gave you my word."

"And you held it," she said pointedly, then asked again, because suddenly she found that subject easier to talk about than their ultimate deadlock, "What happened then?"

"I went to city center to see if someone would pick me up but no one came."

"They didn't want to get involved with CIA," she explained, "When Graves left the warehouse, my cover was still intact." There was more to it but Valerie wasn't sure if it was the best time to elaborate. The agents mentioned Elliot Caldwell and a list, but it didn't make much sense to her, at least now. She wasn't sure how Bruce would react, either, which only made things harder to depict. It felt like they were in a game of treachery and deceit, one she wasn't suited up to play at the moment. If Graves's dying words would be taken to account, Homeland Security was in Gotham to lure out their missing former teammate, not for catching Batman, as everyone believed. They were caught up in a deadly spy game. She rested her head against the backseat, feeling spent. She really wanted to be at home now. She wasn't ready to deal with this, not now. Perhaps tomorrow, but not tonight. Tonight she only wanted to go to bed, with Bruce, him holding her tightly, securely, then sleep.

But again there was this tension in his hunched shoulders, those hard lines over his strained jaw that spoke in volumes. No, sleep wasn't coming easy tonight. Feeling dread rising up, she asked, "Bruce, how did you find me?" Her voice trembled, then she realized her body did too. It felt wrong. She had to be strong, despite everything, she must have that much dignity at least.

"It wasn't me," Bruce answered in a rasp, his eyes still decisively on the road, "It was Elliot Caldwell."

* * *

 _"I'm sorry. It's for naught," the voice said. His back straightened. He'd recognized the voice. He'd been listening to it every night from an old radio._

 _Bruce spun on his heels sharply, ready to attack or defend on both cases. The clamor around them was the same, the crowd still aggressively moving. Bruce understood the former DHS operative thought the same thing he had. The riot was a good cover for anyone. He was tall, dark, and dangerous, like in the stories. Looking at the man for a second, Bruce couldn't decide what he would do. What he should do. Here stood the man he had been looking for for weeks now, merely standing in front of him, obviously waiting from him the first act. The man who obviously knew why he was here. The man who called him with his name. The man who had killed his friend!_

 _The last thought snapped him out of his momentary reverie. He took a step closer, his eyes darkening, "You—" Bruce started, his voice adopting a deepening rasp on its own account, but the man interjected._

 _"I'm sorry but you don't have time for this," he remarked. Bruce noticed the cool tones. They were less cold now, less automatic, but sinister undertones were still there. "You shall not act," the man advised, "She hasn't got much time."_

 _Bruce had a million of questions but he knew the reason when he saw it. But still… "How do you know? How did you learn?"_

 _"Malkin didn't understand what he caused when he sent Ms. West after me. Best intentions—" he intoned in a grave grumble, something close to resignation,"They seldom pay off."_

 _Bruce looked at him with narrowed eyes, remembering what Bottlecup had told him. "Your spies saw us in his apartment," he said but it was more than a statement._

 _"Yes, but I saw you both together on a rooftop, too," he said in return, a little half smile played over his mouth. Bruce understood he was talking about the second crime scene, when Bruce had hoisted up Valerie to the rooftop above from the police. Caldwell had been there, too. He'd been watching them since then!_

 _The anger poured out of him,_ _his feet dragging him closer to the former spy on their own account._ _"What are you doing here?" he hissed, "What's your angle?"_

 _"I don't have any angle, not with you—"_

 _"You killed Fox!"_

 _"I didn't kill him. I just pulled the trigger," he said, "It isn't the same thing."_

 _Shouts became more violent around him, but Bruce took no notice of it for his blood was drumming in his ears. His fists were so tight that his knuckles had turned to white from their force. "Why?" he spat, "Why? Who hired you?" He understood now. He'd just pulled the trigger. Whatever the reason was for it, Fox wasn't involved with his parent's deaths. Fox was innocent. His vision darkened. "Was it my board? Did they hire you?"_

 _"You ask the wrong questions, Mr. Wayne," the man remarked, almost in disappointment. "The man hired me is no one. He's no one of importance, just a misguided fool who wants to take his revenge. He loaded my gun but he didn't point it to your friend, either."_

 _For a few seconds, Caldwell stayed silent, looking at him for a reaction. Bruce stayed motionless, staring at him back. "You're in a game you can't even understand," he finally started talking again, his words carrying a kind of weariness Bruce knew too well. He shut out the thought quickly, refusing to follow it further._

 _"How cruel is that—" Caldwell continued, "How they play with us—" He shook his head, "You want to know who killed your friend? It was Gotham. Gotham killed your friend. They let him come this far."_

 _"Mayor?" he asked, even though he knew the answer._

 _"Isn't it poetic?" Caldwell smiled again, "Order always needs chaos to prevail."_

 _Bruce wasn't interested in philosophical chitchat. "Why did you accept?"_

 _"They made an offer I cannot refuse—"_

 _"The name of officers who got involved with your family's death," Bruce whispered, more to himself. Caldwell without a word hung his head forward in acceptance. It seemed so surreal, all of it. Around them, Gotham was tearing itself apart and he was talking with the man who was partly responsible for it._

 _"Do you know where she is?" Bruce asked at last, deciding to concentrate what mattered the most._

 _The man nodded. "They took her to a warehouse in the northern side of the harbor. The second one next to Garibaldi Alley."_

 _Bruce didn't question the integrity of his words. He knew the man wasn't lying. He only couldn't understand the reason. "Why do you help?"_

 _There was no hesitance in his answer. "I thought of killing you, both of you, but I respect what you're trying to do here. It's for naught, but still respectful." He paused for a second, as if weighing his words, "My quarrel isn't with you." Bruce opened his mouth, but Caldwell didn't let him speak._

 _"You, on the other hand," said he, "have one with me. I might not be the cause of your friend's death, but I pulled the trigger. I know what that means. I have to pay back, and only life can pay for death. So this is me paying you back." Caldwell looked at him before he repeated again, "My quarrel isn't with you, Bruce Wayne. Join me or step aside."_

 _Bruce looked at him back directly. He had lived this moment before. In the midst of chaos, fire, and smoke, he'd looked at another man's madness and told the same thing; "I'll stand where I stand now. Between you and Gotham."_

 _"Gotham!" the man laughed, a slow but pitying voice, like he pitied Bruce. "Gotham doesn't deserve your loyalty. What you try to save is already broken. You're trying to fix something cannot be fixed. It's not Gotham that is needed to be fixed, but the system." He came closer, and whispered again, his words as fierce as his voice, "Join me. You and me—together we can build another one, a better one."_

 _But only thing Bruce saw was chaos. He shook his head. "You only know how to destroy."_

 _"And you think yourself different?" Caldwell snapped back harshly, his cool bravado failing, but in its state stood a man with a terrible grudge, standing to judge,"Look around," Caldwell challenged, "This is your legacy, too. What you have built."_

 _His fist tightened even more, it took all of his willpower not to strike him down at that moment. Because deep down, at a dark corner of his mind, Bruce knew what the man had said was true. All of his struggles, all of his sacrifices, all of his strives, and the only thing he had built was a lie._

 _"What has started here," Caldwell continued, his eyes wandering around, his hands half risen at his sides, and for a moment, the man looked like a messiah, "You can't stop it."_

 _The words exploded in his ear. Watch for the sign! He recalled the words from the old radio. Then he knew. "What is it?" he asked, taking him at his collar, "What are you planning?"_

 _The man smiled a little smile but didn't made any effort to break his grip. "You'll know it when you see it."_

 _Bruce's grip tightened, his face distorting with anger. "I—"_

 _"The clock is ticking—" The man cut him off, "She needs you."_

 _Valerie. Valerie. Valerie. With trembling hands, he took a step back, dropping his hands. Valerie needed her. Valerie— Caldwell looked at him, as if waiting for him to decide. Bruce then understood why he had come, to show him his weakness. With that little smile, the man dipped his head at him, and turned back._

 _Bruce watched him leave. He needed to make a choice, and he did. He chose Valerie._

* * *

When he told her the story, they had already made to the bunker. Valerie was in silence next to him. She looked spent, like what happened in the city center had taken her last resolve too. Despite what she'd been through, she was keeping herself together until then. It hurt him to see her like this as she shivered like a twig in wind. She had been always resilient, always strong, always defiant. He remembered the car battery on the table. How many times did he try it on her until she gave up and turned him on? He pushed the thought away. It was the last thing he needed to think right now. Every second he thought about it, he had that incredible urge to go back, open the van's door and crush Lawton's head. Valerie let out a rough breath and forced herself out of the car on trembling legs. He held her quickly on the upper arm but she shrugged him off. "I'm okay," she said, holding the van's roof instead of him. He couldn't help himself, he gave out a half, small smile. It was his Valerie, his little defiant hurricane. They could not break her, no one. He got off the van, too, and took the man out. Valerie walked beside him in the bunker's deserted grounds, limping on her legs, but still managing it alone. This time Bruce didn't offer help. He understood her wish. She needed to feel strong, despite everything. "What do you think he meant by it?" she asked, pretending the agent wasn't there.

"I don't know," he said as Valerie opened up the padlock to the bunker. "But he's planning something."

"Obviously," Valerie said back, her face souring, "Control said they were on a tight schedule, told them to—" Her voice faltered before she collected herself again, "to hurry. I thought it was because of us, but if she's only here to catch him, then she knows something would happen."

Bruce nodded, walking toward to elevator platform in the middle of first floor, dragging Lawton behind. Valerie's eyes drew to him for a second. "Graves mentioned a list," she said, "She said Control was having it, before they leaked it too." She furrowed her brows, "They tried to use it via Derrick Malkin but Mayor had it."

Bruce exhaled sharply. "It's the list that has police officer's names that were involved with his family's deaths."

The platform moved and started descending. "There must be another name on the list—" Valerie commented, squinting at the sudden brightness, "That's why Control said they were in a hurry. They know where he'll be tonight. At his last target."

When the platform sat in, a blur passed by him, and took the shape of her father. Jason pulled her into a tight hug, crushing her against his chest. For a second, Valerie stayed motionless, as if she didn't know what to do, then hugged her father fiercely back too. The sight made him feel better. Jason pulled back an inch and held her cheeks, staring at her eyes. Tears shone in depth of her eyes. "Hi—" She swallowed a sob. Bruce heard it.

"You stupid oaf—" Jason berated, "What were you thinking?" There was a catch in the older man's voice. He took a step back, shaking his head. "What were you-" He stopped dead as his eyes fell on the man Bruce dragged behind. "What's he doing here?"

They stared at each other. Valerie looked at her father then. "He—he—I—" she trailed off.

Bruce turned to Alfred. "Alfred, can you clear off the infirmary?" he asked. It was the best place to put the agent. God grace his understanding soul, Alfred nodded without a world, and went to the make-shift infirmary. He turned back to Jason. "Jason, can you take Valerie to the manor? She needs to rest."

Valerie gave a shout of protest as Jason nodded. "No! No—"

"Valerie—Sweetheart," Both Bruce and Jason started at the same time.

"I'm not going anywhere!" she cut them off, then looked at him with eyes suddenly terrified, "Not without you."

His chest tightened. He was leaving her again, like how he'd done in the morgue after he'd gotten her, leaving her to her father. Her glazed eyes told the same, too. Walking to her, Bruce held her at her shoulders. "Valerie—" He gave out a deep breath, "I need to find Caldwell."

"I know," she said, nodding, "I'll help you."

He looked at her battered figure. "Valerie, you can barely stand."

"I'll sit down." She took a step closer to him, "Bruce, please. I—I don't want to be alone."

"You won't—" Bruce said, his chest tightening further, "Jason will be with you."

"But you won't—" she mumbled, then something shifted in her expression, her lips trembling. It happened so quickly. In a heartbeat, the woman who had been trying—trying to stay strong disappeared and in her stead came another… "It's not the same—" she whispered out, as if it took everything out of her, as if she was defeated, her brave façade crumbling. "I want you." Tears broke down like a dam out of her with the confession, and soon she was shaking with powerful tremors. She grabbed him at his gauntlet. He grasped her forearm to steady her. "I want you—" she whispered again, then her voice faltered and she started falling—

Before she fell, Bruce gathered her up, and carried her in the infirmary. Changing the plans, he ordered to Jason, pointing the agent at the ground, "Tie him to the radiator." Walking in the infirmary, he lay her in the bed. She was crying uncontrollably now, shuddering with the force of her sobs. "Alfred!" he shouted to the older man, "Sedatives!"

He sat on the bed, still with his armor and took her in his embrace. Her hands clutching over his breastplate, her cries worsened. He tightened his arms around her. "Shhs, it's okay, I'm here—" he whispered to her slowly in a soothing voice, "It's okay-" He untied one arm and reached out to Alfred to take the sedative that he was holding up. "I'm here." He gave the injection through her neck.

He watched her until her cries ceased, her limbs went limp and she dozed off to sleep. He gently rested her back, lingering over her listless body because leaving her was hard. For a second, he buried his head over the crook of her neck and inhaled her smell deeply. It took a certain type of bastardy to do what he'd done, leaving her like this while she so obviously needed him… He took in a last deep breath, and pulled himself off of her. He stood up.

"Alfred," he called to his former guardian, "Give her another shot if she wakes up," then he left the infirmary.

When he was out, Jason was looking at her with another newfound fury. "You're still leaving?" the former guerilla asked, it wasn't a real question. The older man shook his head. "You're really a son of bitch."

Bruce kept his silence, instead took his phone. He was a son of bitch. No argument there from him. He called Gordon. "We got her—" he told the commissioner before the other man could say anything else, and continued, "I need the names of the police officers that raided Caldwell's house," he demanded.

"What?"

"I need the names—"

"I heard you—" The commissioner cut him off, "I just didn't understand—"

"There is a list, we need to find it," Bruce said in return.

"We heard rumors after Ronald Gore's death," Gordon answered with a sigh. Bruce recalled the late retired MCU officer's name, possibly another name on the list. Richard Atkins, Ronald Gore… who was the third name? Who? "Chief Bullock's team looked for it before but nothing. And when Homeland Security took the investigation—"

"Talk to them," Bruce intervened. "We need to be sure. He's going after the third name tonight—" He paused for a second, "And he's planning something."

"This's bad," Gordon commented, "Here is a mess."

He knew it, he'd seen it. "How was the meeting?"

"The same. Agreed to disagree," Gordon answered with another deep sigh. "This won't end well."

Bruce didn't answer, because he felt the same. He was about to close with a last "keep me updated" but before he did, Gordon asked, "How is she?"

He glanced at the infirmary. He could barely see her figure through the white folding screens. "She's fine—" he said, "She's sleeping."

"Did they—" Gordon started but couldn't complete it. He cleared his throat. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will—" He always did.

He closed the line, but dialed another number. "Rory—"

"At last—" Rory greeted him immediately, "Did you get her? Is she okay?"

"Yes, she's here. She's okay." He seemed to tell the same thing to everyone, but she wasn't okay. She was far from okay. She was beaten, tortured, abused. She'd just had a break down. He shook his head mentally. She was going to be okay. He'd seen her taking worse, had seen her coming out of worse. She'd survived the Joker. His eyes drew to her sleeping figure again, recalling the way she begged him to stay. _"I want you."_ God, he was really a son of a bitch. She needed him. He should go back to the bed, take her in his embrace. He should hold her tightly. He should make sure that he was there with her, never leaving— _"You can't stop it—"_ Caldwell's words echoed in the darkest depths of his mind, cutting through his mantra swiftly like a razor, then his voice added, _I can't be only a man…_

He was the Batman. He had to do what other people couldn't. Valerie was safe now, but Gotham wasn't. He chased away the voices, and steeled himself. This was the man Valerie had fallen in love. Would have she still loved him if he was _just_ a man? Deep down he knew the answer. He wouldn't have loved her the way he did if she wasn't the woman he knew, and Valerie wouldn't have loved him the way she did if he wasn't the man she knew. "Did you see Bottlecup?" so he asked.

The slum kid had wanted to talk to him and something was telling him it was important. It was a hunch, a gut feeling but he'd been Batman long enough to recognize the importance of it. Bottlecup had passed his last days with Caldwell's childhood friends, had found out about the Homeless Network, how they communicated with each other, and now the same gut feeling was also telling him he needed to find the young teenage, asap.

"I'm trying," Rory said, huffing out through the background noises.

"Try harder," he snapped back, then sucked in a breath how rash he had been. He'd been trying, helping, doing his best. He drew out a breath. "I—I'm sorry," he grumbled, apology strange at his tongue, "It's been a long day."

"I know," the younger man said wisely, brushing it away, "It's okay." He paused for a second, as if he was trying to determinate if he needed to add another reassurance before he concluded with a simple, "I'll keep you updated."

Bruce hung up and sat in his stool. Batman had never been good with words, he told himself. He only did what he needed to do. He typed up a few commands and over the screens Elliot Caldwell's file opened up. Something Caldwell had said had made him avert. Unlike him, Elliot Caldwell was good with words, inspiring. He'd told Bruce many things, but inside them it seemed there were some hidden clues, even though he wasn't sure of their meanings. _The man who hired me is no one. He loaded my gun but he didn't point it to your friend._

 _The man who hired me…_ It wasn't Mayor. No, Mayor Thorne was too smart to do that by himself. He must have a man in case he needed a scapegoat. Someone in his board. A misguided fool who wanted to take his revenge… He pressed another key and the files he had prepared for board members came up to the screens, next to Caldwell's files.

He looked at Earle's photo. He was the usual suspect, but this time he lacked the motivation. Most of times Earle's motivations were merely monetary. He wasn't the one who would order a kill for revenge. His eyes wandered over the board members, until he caught Douglas Fredericks' photo.

It suddenly clipped in, everything. He had never been the same after his son's death. He remembered the old man's words from long ago, _"I voted for Mayor. This has to change."_

He sprung on his heel, taking his cowl. "Alfred, find me Fredericks' house!" he ordered before he took the Batpod.

He found it. He found the lead.

* * *

Soft, tender music rose in the dark from the old gramophone at the corner.

Douglas Fredericks stood in front of a long window in his penthouse, watching the city below burn itself to the ground. He couldn't hear the screams but he could imagine the screams. That was what he had bought with his friend's blood. His partner said it was screams of childbirth. Births were always messy things. It took pain and blood to give something life, he understood it clearly now. This was their birth, before their child came to life. A better world. Through the darkness, I come to the light, he repeated sottovoce. It was a prayer. It was his prayer. He was going to get the majority of the board. Rupert was going to enact Act 1010. No one would stop it now.

A flicker in the shadows caught his attention as the music accelerated, reaching to its crescendo. He turned aside and searched the shadows. Shadows… Most people took them as the agents of the dark, but they were wrong. Shadows belonged to light. They were made of light. They were children of the night.

The violins rose majestically, shadows shifted, then took the shape of a man, made of dark and light. He looked at the figure— _Through the darkness, I come to the light…_ The figure was terrorizing, beautiful and terrible, he looked like a god.

And Douglas knew he was here to judge. He'd been waiting him.

 _Only God can judge me._

He looked at Batman. "It's too late now," he said, turning back from the window, from the look of Gotham, "You can't stop it now."

"You're not the only one who told me that tonight," Batman rasped, "I will."

His voice carried the resolution of his will. His verdict. "You're a God," he said, "You may try."

A look of uncertainty passed over his masked face. He walked closer to him. "You're a God!" He screamed at him, "You must've stopped him!" Subsided, he shook his head. "He didn't deserve to live."

The look passing, his face became stone, god-like. "Killing Joker won't change anything."

"No, it won't," he agreed, the music rising again, violins catching each other, "but it's a start."

"Fox was your friend!" the God of Dark and Light all shouted at him.

His friend… He was his friend. The music softened suddenly, calming down as if it was soothed down. Then he remembered… "It was a sacrifice," he muttered, then turned around. "Sometimes it all feels like a dream," he said slowly, watching Gotham below, this time all he saw was a city tearing itself apart, "I often find myself wondering if it really is, that we're not here at all, but we're at elsewhere, and this's just a butterfly's dream."

"Tell me the last name in the list—" Batman ordered, "I know you had it." Douglas smiled bitterly. He wasn't a God. He was just a man playing God. Like them.

"What difference would it make?" he asked.

"Tell me!"

It wouldn't make a difference, no, it wouldn't. The music died. Only voice now was the needle's dull sound as it turned over the emptiness. So he did, he did tell him.

* * *

Bruce left the madness of the old man to his own, hurrying to the rooftop. He pressed in his ear, and called in, "Gordon," he barked out as soon the line picked up, "Where is Bullock?"

"What-? He's with his team, they were going to Homeland Security's HQ."

"Find him!" Bruce ordered, climbing over the bike, "It's him. It's the third name in the list."

* * *

 _Sorry about all angst but you see this is partly a Batman romance, and him being happy and in love is like OOC, heh. Besides, this way is much fun. We're at the finale part, too, as you can see, in a few chapters all will tie up...better or worse. Stay tuned._


	25. Part VII-II

**Part VII. II – "Retribution"**

* * *

Smoke and acidic burn in the air was heavy even the western parts of the city where Homeland Security's headquarter stationed. The Homicide Chief wasn't in sight. Bruce surveyed the area from his vintage point, but only spotted Burke and Isley as they hurriedly walked away from the intimidating building. It was a monstrous structure of metal and hard concrete, protected with many eyes and guards with heavy arms. The situation in the city center made everyone alert, more than so, and given that what had happened earlier in the night, Bruce wasn't surprised. He regarded his chances but the odds weren't with Batman tonight. Although the whole city's attention was fixed at the City Hall, DHS's operation center wasn't somewhere Batman would infiltrate without a plan at hand. It was partly what was wrong with it; Batman was a creature of good planning and careful assessments, but since the moment Valerie had gone MIA, Bruce could only go along. He could always improvise, but there were too much things at risks now.

A surge of worry threatened to enter through his mind barriers, but relentlessly he pressed it down. She was good, she was safe… He touched the cowl's tip and opened up the wireless line. "Alfred," he called in, "can you locate Bullock's position?" he inquired. The phones he had donned to the force were the ones that they still used. He should be able to follow every cop in the city but Caldwell wasn't someone who would do such a rookie mistake at this stage. The former DHS agent had been planning this for a long time, Bruce was sure now; this was his game. Bruce wouldn't admit being a mere player.

"Negative, sir," his former guardian replied, "I can't read his signal."

Bruce nodded, his last thought proving right. "How's Valerie?" he asked then.

It wasn't Alfred who had answered this time, but her father. "Like you left her," came his blunt voice, a trace of accusing in undertone, "Still unconscious."

Bruce grimaced at the curt words but didn't comment. Jason was still angry with him. He didn't blame the older man. He was a father, and the former guerilla had always made sure how he felt with their relationship since the time they had sex in Belfast. _I don't care who you're, you can't fuck with my daughter, do you hear me?_ He steeled his mind and shut out the voices. No. He shouldn't think of this, not now. She was safe and he had a sociopath to catch before it was too late. Valerie knew what she had signed up for when she'd decided to return months ago and come down with him in the cave. She never should have operated alone, either, shouldn't have silenced her phone, shouldn't have gone to that alley—

His inner turmoil stopped dead. The alley at the corner of Park Row and Broadway, where his parents had died a few blocks away—where another child lost a part of himself at the same night Bruce had lost it. It was where it'd all started for Elliot Caldwell, and it was where it should end, too. Bruce knew it, because he knew Elliot Caldwell. Elliot Caldwell was a dark mirror image of him, a person Bruce Wayne would have been if things had been different.

He climbed on the Batpod. He roared up the motor, and dived in the dark.

* * *

Blinking drowsily, Valerie woke up from a pitch black to a clear blank white that had her head spin around. Her limbs were lifeless, her sensations dull. It took great effort to move her neck slightest to escape from the assaulting light. Everything felt like a mess, even though she couldn't recall the reason, but she recognized the sure signs, then it all jumped back on her, a sequence of rapid images firing in her abused mind, toppling one another, turning the spinning of her head into a bitter maelstrom.

She remembered the sting in her skin as Bruce pushed the syringe through her neck, holding her tightly in his arms, murmuring "I'm here"s into her ear. She wanted to laugh manically but she couldn't find energy to part her lips. For a moment or so, she wondered what she had done to deserve this, but she chased the thought away, not wanting to hear the answer. She shouldn't be asking that. She knew what Bruce Wayne was, she knew his priorities, damn it, how long she had been telling him it was okay. How many times she'd told him she didn't expect anything from him other than to be with him? This time a small raw sniff-laughter escape from her sore throat. They weren't together now. She wasn't with him. She was alone.

She craned her neck aside, and saw the hazy shadows at the other side of the make-shift infirmary. Take that back! She wasn't alone, she was far from it. She picked up Jason and Alfred's figure over the other side of the white screen-curtain, hunched over the computer hub, and the obscure silhouette crawled in the corner. Her face became stone, her blood running cold as her eyes bore a hole through the curtains. She knew what it was. It was the reason why she was in this bed, lying semi-conscious, feeling like dead, alone. Her vision darkening, she threw the thin blanket off her and tumbled down over the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold tiles, her head turning. She blindly reached out, grabbing the curtains, and pulled them away. The light came at her again after a second, and she spotted the shadowy figure in the corner.

"You—" she hissed, her nostrils flared in righteous anger, voice like venom, staggering toward him. Despite the heat inside her, her face still felt like a marble, cold and unfeeling, like no life had left in her. He'd taken it away. He'd taken all life away from her. He'd tortured her, broken her, made her betray the man she loved, the man she wanted to stay forever in his arms, the man she wanted to have a—normal life—a child—With a screeching cry, she launched at him, and caught his throat. "You did this to me!" she cried out at his face, her fingers vice-like, "You did—"

She heard her name yelled from behind, hands trying to pull her away from the monster in front of her, but she fought. She shrugged them off, kicked her father away, elbowed Alfred at his side, and grabbed the man's throat again. He started laughing, big, loud laughter coming out of his depths. "Come on," the monster mocked her, "Do it. Finish me." He looked at her eyes. "You know I deserve it."

 _Yes,_ echoed in her mind. _You deserve it._

Her fingers tightened, then another sting burned her in her neck, and everything went black.

* * *

Bowing his head to hide his mouth under the side of his long coat's collar, Gordon tried to breath in through the acid scented air. He should have wear a gas mask or at least tied a soaked handkerchief over his nose like protesters did, but it'd send the wrong message. So instead he covered his mouth with his coat, and surveyed the area. His mind was still occupied with Batman had given him, but he couldn't let his mind wander. Bullock—Bullock was a friend and he trusted the man, but he'd heard the talks about him, the way he acted, the way he drunk—as if to bury something deep down. Each man had his own ghosts that haunted them, Gordon knew it better than anyone but if he was involved with that raid long ago that had resulted with Caldwell's parents' deaths—he didn't know. Bullock was a good man, but sometimes that meant so little. Harvey Dent had been a good man, too, before this all started. His eyebrows tightened more, and he pushed back the thought. He was the Commissioner. His duty was with his people. On his left, there was a stir among the ranks. Quickly he gestured, and called an officer close by.

"What's happening there?" Gordon questioned, his voice rising over the outcries and shouts. Things had quickly escalated after the meeting with the Council didn't open up the police barricades. They started first burning cars and buses, and bus stations, the thick poles of their banners turning into cudgels, and soon looting also started. Broken windows scattered over the roads, cobblestones prickled and hurled at them. The anger and hatred the lower parts of Gotham had pent up for a long time finally finding a target to aim. Gordon knew it was long coming. He wished there had been something he could do to prevent it, but it was just good wishing.

The young officer shook his head. "They've started pushing again—" he yelled, pointing toward where the frenzied crowd decisively advanced, bracing themselves against the long shields of the riot police. "If they keep this up, Mayor will need to ask for National Guards again," the younger officer added, a frightened cry in his voice.

A stern look appeared over Gordon's face. He could understand why that prospect frightened his man. They had to find a comprise, sit over a table and talk, but really talk, not like with those clowns in the City Hall. They need to listen to these people, really listen to them and hear what they were saying. His eyes caught the banners; _"Our voice will be heard"._ How a thing could be that simple and that difficult at the same time. Peace…making peace wasn't easy, simple perhaps, but never easy.

"Commissioner!" a loud shout came behind him, "Commissioner Gordon-!" He turned around and saw a dark haired man in his late twenties running toward him down on the marble steps of the City Hall. Gordon frowned. He looked oddly familiar but he couldn't place the man. "Sir, Tim Drake—" the man greeted himself with a faint accent he couldn't exactly place, either, then continued, "I'm Detective West's assistant—" then Gordon recognized him, "We have a mutual friend."

Gordon curtly nodded. He didn't know how the younger man could get inside the barricades, but if he was a friend of their mutual friend—then the question wasn't needed to be answered. "How can I help you, Mr. Drake?" he asked as civilly as he could manage at the moment.

"I need to find a—friend," he said, "But this doesn't help." He held up his phone.

"We have jammers to block cell phones," Gordon asserted.

"I know, but it's no use. They don't use any sort of transmitters to communicate with each other. The old way. They call it Homeless Network. They pass messages through lips to lips, and dustbins to dustbins. Garbage." Gordon let out a sigh. He should have guessed this. Drake pointed at his radio with his head. "Can your men find our informant?" he asked.

Gordon took his radio. "It's a long shot but let's try." He brought the radio over his lips. "Give me his picture."

The assistant supplied quickly. "A young man in his sixteen, Afro-American, has black pants over lower his waits, and chains with a skull at the end. Wears a red cap askew, walks with a swagger."

Gordon repeated over the radio at his team simultaneously. "What's so important about this guy?" he asked when he was finished.

Drake half-shrugged. "Not sure. Our mutual friend wants to hear what he's got. Bottlecup was tailing a few person of interests. He called a few hours ago, but you know what happened. Bruce sent me instead."

Wordlessly, Gordon nodded. At their left, the fore-groups divided the front lines of their ranks and started marching toward the City Hall. A sudden clamor erupted around them. The riot place counteracted firing tear gas, and protesters first momentarily disbanded, but then regrouped quickly and started pushing again. Everything was under a heavy mist of smoke bombs and tear gas, gnawing at the throats. From the backlines, fires shot in the sky, rocks and bottles accompanying them, hitting behind the lines, covering the sky under a red pattern. They sung marches, feverish and frantic, suitable to the ambience. Gordon couldn't pick up the words but he didn't need to. The songs were universal, even though the words unfamiliar.

When the Molotov cocktails started firing again, they fell back inside the City Hall. In front of the grand entrance, they watched the city burn itself to the ground. The younger man had a peculiar expression over his face, something between awe and sadness. Gordon glanced at him. He caught it. "I grew up in Belfast," Drake slowly said as if to explain, shoving his hands into his pockets, "Used to be at the other side." He paused for a second, "Life is odd."

Gordon returned his gaze to the crowd; marching, shouting, singing in the midst of fire and smoke. Their voice was heard now. "It's indeed," he agreed, and asked, "How did you meet with him?"

Drake gave out a small smile, and asked in return. "Isn't that story same for everyone? He saved me out of a bad spot."

Yes, yes it was. An officer approached them, a teenage boy following him close. Drake returned and assessed the boy. "Bottlecup."

The slum kid fidgeted on his feet. "Who are you, man?"

"We have a mutual friend," Drake answered, giving him the same answer, then demanded, "What have you got for him?"

Bottlecup's eyes drew between him and other police officers for a second, before going back to Drake. "I saw Bubble Gum before they left the house," he said, "He—he—" his voice hesitated, his eyes trailing between them again, "He was wearing a suicide vest."

* * *

The darkness was like the first time Bruce had seen the alley; dark and strained. Batman stood at the edge of it, a darker shadow, shoulders hunched, head bowed, motionless like an ever watchful gargoyle. Down below at the black street white thick lines of chalk were drawn into bodies, and next to them, crouched bulk of mass was Bullock, and in front of all the scene was the judge; Elliot Caldwell. Bruce understood it at the first glance. Caldwell had recited the crime scene, and enacted his own court and there he would be the judge.

As if the man had read his mind, he started his display. "Come forth, Batman," he called out, his voice clear and deep, "Be our witness."

Wordlessly, Bruce jumped down from the rooftop he had been standing in a crouch then pulled upright, his cape pooling over his shoulders. "Let him go, Caldwell," Bruce answered in deep rasp, "I will give him to the commissioner and he will be punished." He paused for a second. "It's done. You won."

Caldwell looked at him, stern eyes having no mercy. "I won?" He shook his head. "No, Batman. This man…this man is no one, just a spoke of the wheel. Before the end of tonight he's going to die, but—"

He took a step forward, his body falling into defensive position, ready to strike. "He—"

Caldwell raised his hand. "Stop." Bruce did, his eyebrows tightening behind the cowl, "You're here to bear the witness, nothing more. This man's fate is no longer at your hands."

"And how are you going to stop me?" Batman rasped out deeply.

"Stop you?" Caldwell asked, a sincere interest, "Why would you want to intervene?" The man's eyes skipped the homicide chief's at the ground. "This man killed my parents. He deserves to die."

"Perhaps, but you can't be the judge and the executioner at the same time." They couldn't. That path never went anywhere. Rachel had taught him that. "Justice is more than revenge."

"I can, and I will," Caldwell insisted, a crazed light sharpening his stern eyes, "Killing them isn't the only felony they committed. They hid it for years. My parents were buried in a forgotten cemetery with only numbers marking their graves. I could never find them. Do your parents have their graves?" In silence, Bruce looked at the man. "Did you watch people lowering them into their graves? Did you stand over there and pray? I never did. I never found their graves, I never stood beside their graves, I never cried, I never prayed. There was only dead. Only missing."

For a moment, Bruce had no answer for the former agent. He didn't tell the man knowing his family's graves hadn't made a difference, he didn't tell he never visited their graves, never cried beside them, never prayed. In a way, yes, for him, too, there was only dead. A heavy tight silence sat between in the air between them as they looked at each other, growing tenser and tenser. Finally, Batman broke it with a deep grave voice, giving him the only thing he could. Truth. "Killing him won't make things better."

For that Caldwell only smiled a little, and said simply, "I know."

That moment Bruce knew the talking was done. He could never change Caldwell's mind. He stirred, flexing his muscles, but before he could charge at the man, Caldwell's voice stopped him again.

"You know when Control had leaked the list," Caldwell said suddenly, "I wanted to see what would happen. Perhaps I even hoped—there is still goodness. I didn't believe, but I wanted to see," he repeated. There was something in his voice now, something very akin to sadness, almost in resignation. "If they did, if they did come forward, if they didn't kill the investigation, didn't force Malkin to reassign I'd have even reconsidered my actions." It sounded true, like he had really hoped it, but Bruce knew it was. He had opportunity before to take revenge but instead he had waited.

"But who cares for a little guy's criminal dead parents?" Caldwell asked, giving out a bitter laugh. "Who cares about us? There is many of us at the end. What our life means next to the mightiness of _their_ peace? We're expendable." He lifted his head and looked at the east, toward the city center. "Well, no more. _No more."_

A cold fear ran through Bruce's veins. Caldwell's attention turned to him again. "Look at the sky, Batman, and bear witness," he called out with a clear voice, no hesitation or sadness, but as strong as the foundation of earth, resolute. At the same moment a loud explosion shook the world, covering the eastern sky red with fire. "Before I was no one." Bruce heard the man saying through the ringing in his ears, "I had no name, I had no grave. It was a fire that took me, and with fire I have born again."

Bruce watched the dusted red sky with horror as the mushroom cloud sat over at the heart of the city. "Fire and smoke," Caldwell intoned, "and blood, thus I have become." A million of thoughts had passed through his mind simultaneously before Bruce realized Caldwell had started talking again. "Killing him won't make things better, yes, this—" He raised his arms again like a messiah, "This will make it better." He looked at him, shaking his head, "Do you really believe that I would stay here chatting with you the morality of murder where my enemies crush my people?" Caldwell asked, "You're predictable. You cast one life before the other, but cannot see what lay beneath."

Bullock started coughing, and soon blood started coming out of his nose. "That man was dead even before you came here. He was just a pawn like the others. I wanted the King. I wanted the few, I wanted the ones who always hide behind their protected walls and bet with our lives. I wanted to show them what many could do to the few. You know what's this…" Bullock coughed more intensely, blood pouring both of his nose and mouth, and Caldwell watched him die, cast off marble, "This's retribution," he announced, "Gotham's reckoning."

The homicide chief fell on the ground lifeless. Caldwell turned to him. "My quarrel isn't still with you," he repeated what he had said earlier in the night, "Join me, or step aside."

And Bruce gave him the same answer before. "I'll stand where I belong. Between you and Gotham."

"Don't you understand?" the man sneered, "I AM Gotham!"

"So AM I!" Batman grunted out deeply before he charged.

* * *

Coming to herself groggily again, Valerie heard the sirens. It was a loud clamor, scratching in her ears, ripping the silence in the bunker. She blinked a few times until she understood they were coming outside. Which was odd. The bunker was a deserted part of the Eastern coast, a private, rusting place firmly secluded from the clutter of the city, yet her ears rung with the blazing sirens, honking horns, roaring motors. Something wasn't right. She quickly jumped down from the bed where they had lay her again after they had drugged her _again_ and left the makeshift infirmary.

"What happened?" she asked to Alfred and her father, walking to them where they sat in front of the computer hub, looking at screens, then her eyes caught the screens too.

For a moment, her lungs stopped working, her chest feeling tight. She couldn't even breathe. "Explosion in the city center. Martial law has been declared," she read the GNN's breaking news tagline.

She held the workbench in front of her. "Bruce-?" she barely made it out, her voice a low scratch, "Bruce-?" she repeated louder, feeling hot tears inside her eyes, and fear gripping her insides. Her stomach felt like a stone. "Where is Bruce? Where is he?"

Jason grabbed her at her shoulders and held her tightly. "He's fine." She looked at the screens wildly, people running, sirens blaring, she couldn't even differ anymore from where they came— "Look at me," Jason told her, forcing her head to him with his hand, "Look at me," he repeated sternly, "He's fine. He's coming back to the bunker."

She gave out a shaking breath, closing her eyes, a murmur of a prayer on her lips, but she didn't know what she was saying. It had been so long since she had prayed, so long. Tears fell down over her cheeks. "Rory?" she managed after a few seconds. "Is he okay?"

Her father nodded. "Yes. We talked ten minutes ago. He's with Gordon. He found Bottlecup. He saw Bubble Gum tying a suicide vest before he left for the city center. They couldn't find him in time, but without him and the commissioner things would have been even uglier."

She looked at her father. "How many—how many died?" The City Center was a boiling hive, so jammed with people, so crowded.

"He detonated it at the City Hall. Thirty-two casualties so far but there are a lot of injured." Jason paused for a second. "His target was the Mayor. He died, too, along with the City Council."

Valerie collapsed on the stool. Everything was really a mess. A suicide bomb exploding, martial law had been enacted, Mayor was killed. She didn't feel sorry about the Mayor, the man got what he deserved… Her thoughts stopped dead, an image suddenly flashing in her mind… Her hands tight around Lawton's throat, squeezing, his face blue, but there was a smile on his lips.

 _You deserve it._

Her head snapped to left where Lawton was tied to the radiator, but it was empty. The DHS agent wasn't there. She jumped down from the stool. "Where is Lawton?" she asked frantically, "Where is he?"

Her father was again at her side. He caught her in his embrace, his arms too tight. _No…_ she passed in her mind. _No, please, no._ "Fa—father?" she asked through tears.

He pushed her away in inch, and looked deeply at her eyes. "It's okay, do you hear me?" She shook her head wildly, a string of "no"s pouring out of her, "It's okay," her father repeated, "He deserved it."

She screamed, dissolving into tears, crumpling up in her father's arms. She had done it. She had killed him.

* * *

 _Okay, I finally did it, made Valerie kill someone, crossing the line that Bruce has been forcing himself not to sooo long. I don't know what else would get their relationship more completed than it's already. I'm not perfectly content with how I handled the showdown between Bruce and Caldwell, but I can't find time, energy, and stamina to do it "bigger" as of the moment. Hope it isn't disappointing, or worse, boring. But damn, don't I feel like Cersei, blowing the shit up! Haha._

 _Only one chapter to go, then finally epilogue. I plan to finish the book within this week. Hopefully._

 _Be seeing you._


	26. Part VII-III

_A/N: Finally, the finale!_

 **Part VII. III – "Forever and always"**

* * *

Even his little victory against Caldwell felt like a failure. He'd beaten him, fist after fist, kick after kick, he had beaten the former him, but at the end it was Wraith who had won, not Batman. His eyes fell at the eastern sky. It was still red with fire, hazing dust cloud where once had been City Hall visible even this far in the dark. How many people had died tonight? How many would wish to die afterward? Like a flash, in his vision entered broken bodies, thrown off limbs, blood everywhere, people screaming. He'd been once in a bomb attack in Iraq, he'd seen the damage terror cause. He'd seen the suffering it create. Gotham had seen it with the Joker, too, and they were living it again. Anger washed over him. He should have stopped this. He _could_ have stopped it. He'd had a chance earlier when the man had come to him but Bruce had chosen Valerie instead.

Bile rose to his mouth. His choice had caused this too, just like how Caldwell had predicted. He put Valerie's life ahead of Gotham. The things he felt—they were—he couldn't decipher, he couldn't understand. He chose like every man who loved someone would do, like how he had chosen Rachel, and once again, he failed. This was what happened when he decided like only a man.

He tightly shut off his eyes. His sight blackened, the smell in the air became heavier, graver. His eyes closed, he could almost hear the screams. He tipped his cowl, and tried to reach to Rory, another dread gripping him. If Rory—if he died, his death would be on his shoulders. Another choice he had made. He waited the line, his stomach coiling into a stone, then a coughing came from the other side. "Rory!" he rasped out, heaving out with a sharp breath.

"Hey—we're okay," the younger man said immediately, as if he'd read his thoughts. Despite his claim, though, his voice was shaking. "Gordon is with me too." Bruce gave out another breath, the stone feeling in his guts loosening a bit. "We found Bottlecup. He'd seen Bumble Gum tying a suicide vest. We tried to evacuate the building but too late."

This time guilt was heavier than everything he ever knew. His stomach churned, his throat felt like washed with ash. He steeled himself and accepted it. He had chosen this, now he was going to pay for it. His eyes skid over the man lying unconscious on the ground. "I seized Caldwell. I'm taking him to the bunker. Come with Gordon," he ordered, "We need to talk."

There was still the matter what to do with Caldwell. Bruce couldn't decide. He couldn't give the man to Gordon. Once the former agent was given to the commissioner, The Homeland Security would be on him. Then who would know what Caldwell would tell, about him and Batman? Valerie had said Control didn't know what she had confessed to Lawton, but the director still knew his supposed connection to the Dark Knight. He would not let that happen, either. And Lawton…another matter they also needed to deal with.

When he returned to the bunker, the dawn was approaching, an orange-purple light sweeping over the horizon slowly. A new day was beginning. He stepped out of the platform lift, walking toward the radiator to tie Caldwell next to Lawton. He sensed the tension in the air at the first step. He dropped the man on the ground, fixing Alfred a stare, then his eyes skipped around. His former was guardian alone. "Where is Valerie?" he asked, "Is she okay?"

"Mr. Allen took her to the manor," the older man supplied evenly, then Bruce noticed another thing. Alfred was alone. He was really alone. He looked at the radiator, and saw it missing one certain DHS agent. He turned around himself, the dark feeling he had feeling raising, his chest tightening, "Alfred, what happened? Where is Lawton?"

With a dour face, Alfred pointed back at the make-shift infirmary. "There, sir," he answered tiredly, "He—he's dead." Alfred didn't say anything else, but Bruce understood what was left unsaid.

The world turned to a darker place.

* * *

"Don't do it, Master Bruce," Alfred said just before he started the security footage, "Don't watch it."

"I have to see it, Alfred." He hit the key. He had to, he had to see it. Alfred let out an exasperated breath, but didn't try to stop him again. Over the screen, Valerie appeared like a ghost, staggering toward Lawton, who watched her with a small smile. He couldn't know if Valerie saw it or no, because she looked—not like Valerie. There was madness in her eyes, her face was white like a marble, but her eyes were alight with a sharper edge, a look despite everything Bruce had never seen on her even when she had gone to Ronnie in Belfast. She looked damaged, broken, like a part of her would never heal again. Then she screamed, _"You did this to me!"_ Her scream was as delirious as her eyes, like a long, shrill wail, accusing and demented. The words had been directed at Lawton, but they pierced through him all the same.

 _You did this to me!_ And Bruce did. His life, his choices, his decisions had brought her to this point where she looked like a Furies on act, a goddess of vengeance instead of the woman he loved. "Don't leave me," she had whispered in his arms before she drifted to the sleep, "don't leave me." He had whispered her back he was here, that he wasn't going anywhere just before he had lay back her listless body in the bed and left her—again. Shame and guilt came back, and he almost vomited. Another failure, another mistake. He didn't know where he made wrong. All the decisions he made turned to a mistake. No matter what he did, no matter what how much he tried, all his life was a big fat failure.

Over the screen, her hands found Lawton's throat. His smile widened. "Do it. Finish me," the man mocked her through strained throat, voice low but dark murmur, as Alfred and Jason tried to pull her back. She fought back like a Furies. "You know I deserve it," then Lawton said.

He could never forget the look in Valerie's eyes again. With a sneer, she looked back, as if to confirm, then twisted his neck aside.

Alfred gave her another dose as she did, and they both fell on the ground at the same time.

He stopped the video footage, and dropped his head over his chest, her words still ringing in his ears. _You did this to me!_ He did, he had done this to her by making her stay, just because he wanted her, he wanted a life beyond what he had. Another mistake. Ducard knew it better than him. When a soldier passed the test and took the vow to join the League of Shadows, he also took a vow of celibacy because a man could not commit himself anything but his cause. In his mind, he heard Ducard's sneering laugh. Ducard had told he didn't have in him what it took to be one of them, and Bruce had agreed. He couldn't take a life, even a criminal's one. But he understood it now clearer, what it meant.

The platform lift started with a low machinery voice, bringing him out of his dark reverie. Shoulders hunched, faces bleak, they walked toward him, a dark shroud of sullen air surrounding them. Gordon's eyes caught Caldwell beside the radiator. "You caught that son of bitch?" Gordon asked rhetorically, sounding relieved. "Good."

"Catching him won't stop what's happened tonight," Rory said in return, someone like he had seen it before, and he had. "Even killing him won't stop it. Caldwell's aim was to create a symbol that his people would look up at, and he did. His name, his legacy forever will be remembered."

"He's a terrorist," Gordon returned through his teeth.

"So was Guy Fawkes," Rory shot back, moving up a shoulder.

Gordon heave out a sigh, passing a hand through his hair as if he didn't know how to respond. He looked weary. Bruce knew he should worry, but couldn't bring himself to, Valerie's accusing words still loud and clear in his ears. He sharply breathed out. Both men looked at him.

"It's a discussion for later," Bruce finished it, standing up from his stool, "I'm taking him to the cave."

Gordon arched an eyebrow. "You will hide him there?"

"For a while," Bruce nodded, "Until I find a better place." He had to. The alternatives were the choices he couldn't make. Not until tonight. He could neither give him to Gordon or did what Valerie had done—

"Where is Lawton by the way?" Rory asked suddenly, breaking over his thoughts. He looked at the younger man. There was a frown over his eyebrows, his eyes questioning. "I thought you caught him too."

"He's dead," he answered simply, voice deadly cold.

Surprise colored Rory's face. "What?" he asked, "What happened?"

"He's dead," he only repeated, and pulled Caldwell from the ground. He hung him over his shoulder roughly as he walked out. It was the only answer he had, only reality he had. He was dead. His eyes skipped toward Caldwell's unconscious body, and for a moment, despite everything, despite what it meant, despite how he felt, Bruce sensed another thing. He felt—relieved.

* * *

Two days later, Valerie was sitting behind the table in her old room, the good ol' main guest room. At night she was still with Bruce, only he came to his room before dawn and slipped in the bed like a ghost, not making a sound as she faked sleep, a fifteen inch between them.

They didn't talk, not really. Bruce spent the day in the cave, and the evening, and the night before he returned and did his gig. Valerie had no desire to go down there and see that man. Sometimes at night while she faked sleeping, she had an urge to roll over Bruce and hold him tightly, perhaps even cry while she did, but each time she didn't move, not even an inch. It seemed like they'd returned to the beginning, to those times they slept in the same bed, consciously aware of the fifteen inch between them, both at their corners. The thought brought a bitter smile to her lips. _Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy_ , she recalled the infamous quote. How true. Her life had turned into a tragedy. Granted, she'd never thought it could be a fairy tale, but she didn't think it'd be a tragedy, either. How stupid she was. She'd fallen in love with a tragic hero after all. So stupid.

Should she feel remorse, regret, guilt? She wasn't sure. After her initial shock and mental broke down wore off, she became—well, she didn't know what she became. The fact that she'd killed a son of bitch that if he lived would have caused more damage than he had already done didn't disturb her as much it would, and _that_ disturbed her more than it should. It was as if she was more upset at the fact that she _wasn't_ upset, like how she'd been upset at her father for a long time not only because he'd sold her out, but because he'd done it without feeling remorse. But she was his daughter, his blood. What was that man to her? He tortured her, beat her, shamed her. Excuse her if she didn't lose any sleep over it.

But she wasn't sleeping, either, was she? No, she was lying awake in the bed, pretending to sleep, all while wondering if Bruce would make a move and take her in his arms… Tears came to her eyes, her hands pulled into fists. She wiped her eyes with her fists, shaking her head. It was stupid. Why she couldn't go and talk to him? She hadn't been in her right mind. She couldn't even remember it fully. She remembered the coldness inside her even when her blood ran like a fire, she remembered his widening smirk, she remembered his taunting smirk, she remembered how her hands went to his throat, she remembered screaming at him. _You did this to me!_

Her thoughts stopped dead, the realization hitting her hard. She looked around the empty room. Truth was that she was doing it to herself. They were doing it to themselves. It wasn't Lawton or his ghost that put fifteen inch between them in the bed. No, it was them, it'd been always them. Anger washed over her like a thunderous wave. She raised from her seat with a curt move that had the chair tumbled back with its force. She left the room purposely. They needed to behave like normal human beings and talk. It couldn't too hard, even with their history.

When she was in the cave, Bruce was questioning the former DHS agent. His face was bloodied, his nose almost broken. He was heaving out with difficult as if he had several broken ribs, and given the Bruce's ragged experience, Valerie would say her guess was accurate. He was silent as a stone while as Bruce was a boiling rage thunder. Last night the fight had started at the streets, suddenly men showing up with arms to engage with National Guards or the police. Gotham had turned to a war zone.

"Where's your arsenal? They have weapons. How do they find them?" he yelled at the man, not noticing her, but Caldwell did. His immobile form not moving, he silently turned his attention from Bruce to her. Bruce followed his example, and turned to her.

Valerie met with a disapproving frown, his jaw set, his muscles tensed. He slowly raised over Caldwell where he sat on a bolded metal chair and looked at her. The sight of the bolded metal chair gave her a slight shake but she forced her body to be still. "We need to talk," she told him evenly.

Without a word, Bruce nodded, a grave acceptance. He untied Caldwell from the chair, and threw him it inside the metal holding cage in the cave. His hands and bounds still tied to each other, the man gave her a small smile. She turned back swiftly and started walking toward the lift. Bruce followed.

They walked to the master bedroom in silence too. When they arrived, he opened the door. She walked in. He closed the door after a second and turned to her. "Valerie—"

"It's driving me crazy," she cut him off, "it really does, Bruce." She tried to keep the anger off her voice, but she didn't know how much she had succeeded.

Despite her curt words though Bruce didn't look taken back or angered. He simply nodded, and sat down at the table. "I know," he said, "Sometimes it makes me, too."

She shook her head, sitting in front of him. "Why do you always have to make it hard then, Bruce?" she asked, because she really wanted to know. "Is this your way to punish me for what I did?"

His head snapped back at her. "What?"

Anger swept in her again despite her best efforts, coloring her voice. "I asked is this your way to punish me?" she repeated placidly, "I betrayed you. I sold you out, then killed a man," she finished relentlessly, her voice still even. Because sometimes the fifteen inch really felt like a punishment, his own retribution. Even through anger, tears threatened to break again.

She bit her inner cheek to keep them inside. She could not cry, not in front of him, not now. Bruce exhaled deeply, a long weary sound. "I don't want to punish you, Valerie," he said, "I'm sorry if it looked like that to you."

She let out a bitter laugh. "Then why are you running from me?" she asked, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay, "What I did is so horrible that you can't even sleep now without putting a fifteen inch between us?"

His face became sterner. "You killed a man, Valerie," he spoke with the same evenness she had, "What do you expect me to do? Tell you it's nothing? Tell you did the right thing?"

 _Yes,_ she screamed inwardly, even shocking herself realizing it was the exact thing she wanted. She wanted him to take her in his arms and told her it was okay. She knew it wasn't, she knew, despite everything, despite what Lawton had done to her, killing him when he was apprehended wasn't right. But still, she wanted. Tears broke, she couldn't stop them. She knew she wished something Bruce would never do. "I never said it was the right thing, Bruce," she said, running her eyes away, "I was—hurt."

"Do you think I don't know that?" he asked back, "Valerie, I know you were hurt. But not only because of him, either." Her head snapped at her. He held her eyes. "Were you?" he asked, searching her eyes, "You were hurt too because I left you, and Lawton was there…looking at you...smiling, and you snapped."

She stared at him, open mouthed. She couldn't believe him. She couldn't believe how he could tell her that. It hurt, too, hearing him saying it so calmly, so matter-of-fact. Anger rising her inside her, her face set into a cold grimace. "He _deserved_ it," she hissed. She could never say she did the right thing, but at least Lawton deserved it. Even Batman could not argue with that, not when he himself once had stood in her steps. "And how hypocritical of you judging me on that when the only difference between us is that someone pulled the trigger before you could?"

Her words hung in the air heavy as Bruce flinched back as if she had hit him. And she did, she had hit him, hard, where it must hurt the most. _I'm not a killer only because someone acted before I did._ For a while, Bruce kept looking at her, not moving even a limb, only staring at her as if he was seeing her the first time. Then without a word, he stood up, and left the room.

God, what she had done?

* * *

Her father came at the night. With her puffy red eyes, tear stained cheeks, and red nose, she must look like a sight. Just like she thought his face pulled into a grimace. "What happened?" he asked, walking toward her.

She shrugged. "We had a fight."

"Hmm," Jason said back.

"I told him something I shouldn't," she continued, letting out a breath. Something he'd confessed to her, trusted her enough to tell. Her guts twisted bitterly. She was a terrible person, no wonder Bruce hadn't come to her. Just like she always did, she acted on her basic instincts, she lashed out and hurt back whoever hurt her. Just like how she had attacked at Lawton like a mad banshee.

"I image it was something big?" her father asked. She nodded. "Go on then, talk to him."

She shook her head. "We can't—can't talk anymore," she confessed, "Whenever we try, we only make it worse."

"Then don't," Jason responded, "Don't talk. Show him how you feel. Actions speak louder than words, sweetheart, you know it better than anyone."

She shook her head again. No, sometimes you needed words, sometimes you had to hear them, because sometimes actions couldn't explain everything, when you caused so much hurt with words that you knew no kiss would make it feel better.

Suddenly, she remembered her dream in the captivity. How happy she was, how it felt to be with him, carrying his child. That dream…that dream was a possibility, they could have it one day. Not today, nor tomorrow but someday. Bruce—he couldn't do this forever. He even said himself so. One day would come and he would look at his life, and he found himself craving for more. Like how she did. Perhaps the reason why her attempt for a normal life wouldn't work out because she hadn't been ready. She was afraid, the life was so full of unknowns, and she was afraid to take that step. Now, she felt ready, she knew it. She _felt_ it. When they'd taken her, she became sure of it. She wanted to settle down, have a normal life like everyone else. Bruce was still not ready for it. Once she'd been at his steps. It was okay. She could wait for him. She could wait for him for a million of years. Good things come to those who wait, she told herself. What would be better than having a life with Bruce Wayne, no complications whatsoever, but only them? Perhaps not only them, either… A small broke over her face. She stood up, and left her father to look for her good thing.

Expectedly, he found her in the cave. Caldwell was in the cell now, sedated. Not taking off too much risks, Bruce put the man unconscious unless he wanted to interrogate him. Valerie knew the man hadn't talked, and she also knew Bruce would never get him talk unless he resolved to other ways. He wasn't going to. Perhaps before he was mildly entertaining with the idea of a real questioning but not after today, not after what she had told him. "Hey," she called out.

He turned aside, and gave her a look. Alfred sensing the tension, left them alone. Bruce watched the older man walked into the metal lift, then turned back to his reports. "Did you decide to what to do with him?" she asked, pointing at the cell with her head as she approached him, "You can't hold him here forever."

His shoulders tensed, but Bruce understood her olive branch. It was better to start like this, it was a dance they had perfected. "No," he agreed with her, and pushed a dirty map over her at workbench. A tiny spot was marked red between somewhere Bhutan and Indian state of Sikkim. She frowned. "There's this cold desert at the southwest region of Himalayas. In that cold desert there was that pit, an open dark well that its depth was so deep, so dark, you couldn't see the sky even when you look up. But it's always there, even though you can't see it. When I trained with him, Ducard used it as a prison for the worst of worsts, for those whom he wanted to suffer for a long time, for those death would be easy. He wanted them to look up each night, not seeing the sky but dreaming of it, feeling the icy wind, dreaming of the freedom, but knowing you would never have it."

She shivered. "Sounds dreadful."

Bruce shrugged off. "He deserved it," he shot back darkly, "There're worse things than death, Valerie." Sometimes, still, despite everything that side of him surprised her, still. It was a part of him, darkness it was a part of him, as much the gentle soul of the boy he once had been, and Bruce Wayne lived in somewhere between.

Bruce Wayne, the man she loved, the man she wanted to grow old. "I'm sorry," she sputtered out suddenly before she chickened out, "About what I said—I didn't mean it."

He raised an eyebrow. "You were right, Valerie. The only difference of us is that—semantics," he finished, making her remember the talk they had in Belfast. _I didn't save him_. "Do you want another secret?" he asked, almost bitterly, "I felt—relieved," he continued before she could answer, "Despite everything, there was still relief, relief that I don't need to worry about him anymore."

Letting out a shallow breath, she closed her eyes. Tears again threatened to come to surface. "I didn't come before because I—I didn't know what to do—" He stopped, shaking his head a little, "No," he corrected, "I knew what I had to, I just didn't want to do it, still."

Her frown appeared again, this time bigger. He turned to her fully. When she saw his eyes, she saw sorrow but also determination. A sudden dread gripped her heart. "I caused this, Valerie. My life, my choices caused this."

"No—" she feverishly interrupted, "No you didn't anything. Bruce, it was me. Off with this self-guilt."

"Valerie, I chose you over Gotham, and a bomb killed thirty-two people. I chose Gotham over you, and you ended up killing someone out of vengeance. I wanted both of you, and failed both of you, too."

"What're you saying?" she asked, dread growing bigger and bigger in her chest, breathing becoming a chore.

"You know what I'm saying," Bruce said in return, and suddenly his hand held a ticket. He pushed it toward her over the workbench. "I can't have it both. No man can."

She looked at the ticket. It was for Nepal, only one-way. "No," she whispered out.

"You have to leave," he finally said adamantly, "You can't stay."

"No—" she whispered out, tears breaking over, and this time she even didn't try to stop them, "No—no you can't."

"Control still looks for you, and she won't stop, either. You can't stay."

She shook her head. "Don't give me excuses, Bruce. She looks for you, too."

"I'm Bruce Wayne. She can't touch me."

"She _can,_ " she insisted, putting an emphasis in the last word, "If you think your money and fame would stop her, you're deadly wrong."

"I don't trust anything but myself. I can protect myself."

"I can protect myself, too."

"No, you can't." He'd told it so sudden, so matter-of-fact, she flinched back. "Valerie, I can't make the choice I did again."

"I'm not asking you to," she said deliberately, and pulling closet to him, she grabbed at his arm. "Stop it, okay? Don't try to be heroic—" He cut her off, taking her hand at his arm and squeezed it.

The eyes looking back at her were stern, unmoving. She shivered. "Heroic?" he rasped out with a hiss, "Do I look like heroic? I'm not hero, Valerie, I'm Batman."

Pressing down her shivers, she looked back at him, and completed the words like he used to tell her before. "And you can't tolerate this anymore."

He didn't answer. She started laughing, everything she felt, everything she dreamed mocking her. All life seemed like a cruel joke. How she could be this stupid? Especially after all the time she'd been telling him she didn't expect anything from him since the beginning. Frankly, she didn't know it herself either, until one day she found herself in a hell, wishing she had another chance. She had to tell him. "You can't do this forever, Bruce. One day you will want more."

His resolves snapped. He grabbed her at her shoulders. "I _already_ wanted more," he yelled at her face, "and look at us now! I'm sentencing a man to a fate worse than death, all while feeling relieved that you killed someone so that I don't have to worry about it, too."

"Then stop it!" she screamed back, "Stop being Batman. Steps aside, let others take your place. Come with me—" Her voice turned to begging, her hand clawing at his forearm. It didn't matter where they were. The only thing she had ever wanted to be with him. "Leave it all behind, have another life. Aren't you tired of fighting?" She inched closer to him, and raised her hand over his cheek. They were so close to each other now she could feel his hot breath, she could feel the uncertainty in him, feel his dilemma. "When they tortured me," she whispered, "I dreamed of you. Only us, and your child in me." She took his hand toward her stomach and pressed it there. "It could be true. I _want_ it to be true. Let it go, Bruce. Let it go." She drew even closer, leaning to kiss him.

Before their lips touched, he took a step back and heaved out a deep breath, as if calling back his resolution. "I can't," he paused for a second, "I'm sorry."

"Why?" she asked it so simply for a moment it sounded bizarre. There were many reasons, yes, but none of them seemed enough. He wanted it, she knew he did.

But when he looked at her with that look she recognized from a night that seemed to her ages ago, she understood he could never let himself do it. He could never let it go. Perhaps he even didn't how. "You still cannot, huh?"

Recognition lit his eyes as he gave her a slight nod.

She wanted a drink. Several drinks, actually. She took a step back, and took the one-way ticket. "You have to understand there is no turning back from this, Bruce," she warned him for the last time. "If you let me go now, you're never gonna have me again. This is the end."

He nodded again. "I know."

"Good," she said nodding back, no tears inside her. She felt alarmingly calm. It felt like a brewing storm over the horizon, a storm you had waited for long had finally arrived, and despite all the damage it created, a part of you, a part inside felt glad. There was no more waiting, no more guessing. She always knew this day would come, she always knew one day he would choose Gotham over her. Jason hated him for that prospect, had tried to warn her again and again, but as she stood there, living it, she understood another part of her, another part inside believed that the storm may never come, believed the things they shared, the bond they had would have caused him make another choice. Some fool she was. She smiled inwardly at her own naivety. She turned around to leave. There was no point in lingering, and she always hated long good-byes. Just as her foot touched the lift, he called her out suddenly, "Valerie—" she stopped, but didn't turn around. "I—I tried."

It'd broken something in her, broke the calmness, the storm arriving. And she was lost in it. She spun on her heels, and cried out forcefully. "But you never believed in it!" Not like she did. He wasn't foolish like she. "Even being with me was a defeat. You were defeated, but you at least tried, right?"

The words disgusted her. How delicately planned it was, she could see now, just like one of Batman's plans. Even within his defeat, he was winning.

"What love isn't?" he asked in return, then continued, "I loved you. I still do. I'm sorry it isn't enough."

There he'd said it, told her openly he loved her and she wished he hadn't done. "You don't love me, Bruce," she said wearily, "you only love the idea of loving. Actually—" A smile pulled out her lips with the same weariness because it was a bitter joke, but still funny, "You love the idea of loving me more than _me._ You prefer mourning over me than _being_ with me. After all," Her lips pulled up higher, she stepped into lift. When come to think of it, it was _really_ funny. She placed the mechanism to its place, "A tragic hero can't be one without an impossible love affair—" and pulled down the lever as she looked at his eyes, and gave out a last smile. "Goodbye, Bruce."

"Goodbye, Valerie," she heard through the echoes in the tunnel as the lift brought her up away from the cave.

* * *

It was cold. It'd passed more than five years since the last time he'd been there, but the cold was exactly how he remembered it. He looked down at the pit. The dark stone opening looked like a round mouth with freezing sharp teeth like the last time. It made him remember the well that he'd fallen in. He wondered if there were bats in the depths. No sound came out of its depths, the silent ruling. Even League of Shadows seldom used it. Below there could be only a handful of people to keep Caldwell in company. Worsts of worsts.

He looked up at the mountain range, remembering his climb. Cold wind ran across his face. He was Batman. He'd been Batman even before he'd put his mask. He would try to be something else, but he knew it wouldn't work. He had dreams, in which he could be someone else, have something else than what he always had. Rachel was a wishful thinking of that dream. Valerie was _the_ dream. This was only the reality. It was cold, cold and bleak, like the life itself. Life was never sweet, never fair. He'd learned it when he was nine in a dark alley.

Valerie was right. He'd tried, but at the end never believed in it. Perhaps a day would come and he'd look back and wish he'd made a different choice, but today wasn't that day, and tomorrow wouldn't be either.

"You'll regret this," Caldwell broke over the silence in the cold, looking at the dark pit in front of him, "If you don't kill me now, one day I'll return." Caldwell turned to him and looked at him in a challenge, in an oath.

Bruce accepted it with a simple nod. "When that day comes," he swore back, "You'll find me where I always stand. Between you and Gotham."

Where he belonged, forever and always.

 _FIN_

* * *

 _Sorry, this wouldn't end in any other way, guys, with Bruce being Batman "forever and always". I always tried to keep him close to his iconic comic book counter part here, and him having a relationship while still being Batman is a disaster waiting to happen. Besides, I still have another book to finish this trilogy and since I'm going with the movie canon (with slight changes) Bruce needs to be alone._

 _And, this is my Bane, too. Frankly, I didn't like what the last movie did with his character so I tried to build him myself here, too, giving him a personal grudge with Bruce. I think Bruce being the one who puts him in that pit, a fate crueler than a clean death, would justify it._

 _Hope you liked the story, and enjoyed the last chapter too. I honestly can't tell anymore, because well, most of you guys stopped reviewing, so I'm guessing you did. Either way, hope to see with the last book (which I'm not sure when I will start writing). Only epilogue left now!_


	27. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

The world was consisted of a heavy hazy mist, of a shadowy grey. There was no light she could find, no color she could see, everything was bleak, worse blank. Empty. As if there was no meaning left. Leaving the manor, she drove to the city center through the drizzle like in a lucid dream. She still felt calm, but she was no longer alarmed. Calmness was lethargic, but also soothing. Pain felt indifferent, as if it was happening to someone else.

She took another big sip from the bottle. The fierce amber liquid burned her throat. She'd missed it, not the burning, but the soothing feeling. God, why she'd given up drinking anyway? Such a fool she was, playing the good girl, trying to be someone else. This was what she had, what she'd always had. Taking another sip from the scotch, she started laughing, big maniac laughter coming out of her depths. It was funny, really funny; ironic, acerbic, cruel but still funny. She stopped and looked up at the building looming in front of her.

It was oddly familiar but it took her a few seconds to recognize it. When she did, she let out another loud laughter. How _funny_ her feet had carried her to this place unconsciously. Her phone started squalled but even without looking at the screen, she took it out and threw it away over her shoulders. She didn't want to talk to her father, and who else could it be than Jason calling her now? Who else she had other than a father who had never wanted her at the first place… The thought made her laugh even harder, as she doubled down with the force of her laughter. Lifting her head, she took another big gulp from the bottle and staggered toward her office's door.

Her unconsciousness must be really playing games with her, she decided as she stepped inside. She straightened up, closing the door with her foot, looking around. Then it hit her, hard. Harder than she had thought, harder than she would have expected. Her laughter turned to stone in her stomach. Everything she had worked for was around her, gazing at her from every corner, from every inch. It wasn't important that she had barely used it, but she had _built_ it with her own blood, sweat, and tears. Every inch of this room had her struggles, her trials, her strife. It was her effort that had made the place _hers_. She had earned it, clawed her way to reach her, to build this, to be part of something bigger—better than her. Tears broke down like a dam, spilling over her cheeks like a flood, and she was utterly helpless to stop them. She didn't even want to. The bottle slipped out of her fingers as her eyes caught her PI license at the wall.

She walked to it, and took it from the wall, recalling the way she felt hanging it there; the pride, the joy, she felt earning it, earning something the first time she had deserved. Her legs gave away and she crumbled down on the ground like how her life had crumbled down. The life she had built. Jason was right, he had been always right. Everything she had was tied to Bruce, everything. Yes, she had built a life for herself here, something real. It was no house of cards, it was no lie, but Bruce was her foundation, and when he took back, everything still fell down. How cruel was that!

How cruel he was! And how stupid she was!

She lifted her neck and looked at the license in her hands. Repulsion churned in her stomach as hatred fired through her veins like a fire. She hit the license on the ground until the frame broke and glass shattered around her, but she didn't stop there, she kept hitting it at the hard floor, each blow harder than before, howling wails pouring out of her chest, tears running over her face, she kept hitting it until there was nothing in the world but breaking that thing. It must be broken, like how her life had been broken, like how she was broken, that thing had to be broken, too. It was only fitting.

It was only then she did understand what he took away from her. It wasn't only his love. No, it was everything, everything she had worked for, everything she held dear to her heart. The life she had built was broken too, like the frame in her hands, shattered into million pieces. He hadn't only chosen Gotham over her, but stole Gotham from her, too. She couldn't stay here, and continued to live. No. She had to leave, stayed hidden in some remote places in the middle of nowhere so Gotham could be safe.

A heart wrenching scream erupted out of her as her hands tore apart the license to the little pieces. She threw them over the floor, then getting up on her feet, she started tearing apart the office. She tore apart the IKEA furniture she had once carefully assembled with Rory and her father, kicked down the couch at the corner, pulled down the shades at the windows, hit the stores at the walls. If her life was really broken, let her truly break it down.

Standing in the middle of her furious storm, panting heavily, she looked at the wrecked thing satisfied. But still something was missing, it was satisfying seeing it like this, but she wasn't satisfied, not yet. She knew what was missing. She wanted Bruce to feel it, feel what she was feeling, the loss. Helplessly watching as the world you knew slipping through your grip and you couldn't do anything to hinder it. Being truly, utterly helpless about it. He thought he knew it, let's prove it. A sinister smile came over her lips. She would return the favor then. She knelt and took a piece of shattered glass from the floor.

She was right. He cannot. He was struck in the past, addicted to misery. His parents had died, and he blamed himself. The love of his life had died, and he blamed himself. This time she was going to give him something to blame himself for the rest of his life, make him truly a tragic hero, something he would never forget again.

Bowing her head, she raised her hand, turning her palm upside, then slowly, deeply breathing in, closed her eyes, bringing the sharp end of the glass nearer to her hand. As the tip entered in her flesh, and her blood started spilling, the landline suddenly squalled in the silence of the thrown-off office. Her eyes skidded to her left side at the floor, where she had thrown it down off the desk, half surprised to see it was still working, half surprised of the timing. No matter. She was done here. She moved her hand, cutting a bit deeper, a bit further. Blood started gushing out faster, her eyes tightly closed, the phone still ringing sullenly.

It stopped as sudden as it started, then voicemail picked up, Rory's voice encouraging to the caller to leave a message. When it finished, though, it was the same voice continued. "Valerie, where are you?" he talked fast, "I've been trying to reach you," he went on. Her hand stopping, her eyes jerked open. It was Rory who had called her before, not Jason as she had thought. But why Rory had called her? She knew the younger man had decided to stay after his part with Gordon in the City Hall as Gordon had offered him a job to be a consultant detective. She was glad for him, at least one of them had his happy ending. "If you're there, answer it. It's urgent."

She looked at the glass and blood over her wrist through the hazy mist of alcohol, and monstrous revengeful feelings she had in her mind started dissolving slowly. She threw off the glass away, and wrapped her other hand over her wrist tightly, and picked up the line, bringing it between her cheek and shoulder. Blood, there was blood everywhere, still sputtering out of the cut in her vein. "Rory—" she mumbled out, tightening her fingers, "What's it?"

"Open the news," he only said in return, as she slowly recognized the sirens outside. Her heart started beating fast, as a new dread gripped her. The last time she heard this much police sirens it had been that night. After that night, the disturbance at the streets each night, but it was different, she knew even before she opened TV.

Silently, she crawled on the floor to find the remote control at the TV at the wall, and turned it on, then at GNN she saw the breaking news. She stared at the screen stupidly, even the blood over her wrist forgotten. "At eleven past three a group of Unheards attacked at the Arkham Asylum," the host of the evening news broke the news, "The details are still unknown, but we have incoming reports from very trustworthy sources indicate that the Joker is escaped."

She gave out a shaking breath. "It's true," Rory said from the other side, "I'm with Gordon. They had it confirmed. I already talked to Bruce. He's dropped Caldwell into the pit of his. He's returning to the city. He wants you to in the cave. Stay put. I'm coming to take you."

She smiled bitterly. "I'm no one of importance," she snapped, trying to find a piece of clothing to wrap her damaged wrist, "I have no importance to the Joker." She really tried her voice sound indifferent but failed. She saw a cleaning patch at the floor and grabbed. It was shameful, what she almost had done. She was crazy, they'd finally driven her crazy. It wasn't the first time she had thought of it, during the time she was in the treatment, once a while, she had thought of killing herself, but each time she had never gathered enough courage to do it. Now, she almost did it to make Bruce feel bad about his decision, make him regret, make him suffer. Something he would never forget nor did forgive himself. She should leave, perhaps Bruce was right. Gotham hadn't come good to her. "I'm leaving tomorrow anyway," she said after a second, pushing the shame with indifference, "it isn't my problem."

Brief silence, something she recognized all too well. Then suddenly it hit her. If the Joker had escaped, neither Rory would have become this agitated, nor Bruce would want her back in the cave. It had passed three days since the day they had spoken in the cave and Bruce was adamant to see her away in a record time. Her secret flight had arranged for tomorrow, after his return from Bhutan, her documents prepared. And Cameron Reese officially declared dead, she was really no importance to the Joker. Why he would want her back in the cave now? For all she knew, if the Joker had escaped, Bruce would want her nowhere close to him. He couldn't tolerate any distraction like _her_ surely. "What's wrong," she demanded tersely, "What happened?"

"We—we heard some reports," Rory started hesitantly, "Some says his therapist is involved too. A guard saw her leaving with the Joker."

She stopped breathing as if something clawed at her throat. "Jason—" she forced out, "Did you—did you reach him?" she asked, dread making her stomach turn cold, understanding slowly dawning on her. Jason—he had gone to see the doctor tonight to say goodbye before they left tomorrow.

Again silence. Her tears started falling again. "No…" she mumbled out.

"We don't know for sure—" Jason said hastily, "He might be somewhere else."

She stood up with trembling legs, pulling her hand away from her wrist. Blood poured out of her with a sudden gush. "No!" she barked out, "No! If you weren't sure, you wouldn't call me. What do you have? Tell me. Tell me now, goddammit!"

"The guard says there's a man gagged with them too," Rory said back, admitting the defeat, "His description is fitting to Jason's."

The phone dropped out of her hand. She stood in the middle of her mess for a second, cast off stone, as if someone just stabbed a knife into her heart. Jason was kidnapped by the Joker. Her father was taken by that psychopath. The thought swirled around in her mind, again and again, before she finally came to herself, and started running out of her office.

When she was back in the cave hours later, Bruce was already there. Both men turned and looked at her, surprised clear in their face. With her torn, bloody clothes and tear-stained face, she knew she was a sight, but she didn't care. Bruce started walking toward her, a deep scowl over his eyebrows. "What happened to you?" he asked, looking at her tightly, careful eyes taking her appearance in stride.

She didn't fucking care. She walked in on him, and looked at him back, her eyes firing, her blood burning. She was burning… with every second she didn't know of her father, she was burning. "Where is my father?" she cried out, "Where is he?"

"Valerie—" He tried to reach her, but she took a step back.

"Don't touch me!" she yelled, all the fury she had felt, enough to kill herself just to make him suffer coming back to her at once, like a monstrous wave washing over her, drowning her in, "This's your fault," she sneered with venom, her eyes riveted on his, and that moment she really hated him, for his self-righteousness, for his selfless sacrificing nature, for all the things he stood for. She raised her chin up. "If something happens to my father," she said, still staring at him, "I'll kill him," she swore, meaning it with all of her being. She'd tried to play it in his way, with his rule, but she understood now it would never work, it would never end. "Don't stay on my way, Bruce Wayne," she warned the last time before she turned and walked away.

This time she didn't look back.

To Be Continued

* * *

 _Hah, things always become worse for our heroes, don't they? But this was always the plan, too, Joker escaping, taking Jason captive, and driving a further wedge between Bruce and Valerie as she almost lost her shit and killed herself to get back at Bruce. Reports always indicate that most suicides have a punishment underneath and Valerie's vulnerability, as her life basically is an extension of Bruce's, shakes her foundations more than losing his love. It's rather sad when you think about it._

 _My first plan was to add also a scene in the future, but I decided to move it to the last book. So the next book will have two timelines, first one will start after Bruce escaped from the pit like in the last movie(I'll stay true to the canon as much as I could, but there will some changes) and another to explain how Bruce and Valerie come to the third movie's timeline. After I saw TDKR, like many of us, I wondered how Bruce returned to Gotham penniless after the pit, so the book will cover that part, too. Actually, the whole plot of the last book was directly inspired by it._

 _Now, I don't know exactly when I'll be able to start the last book, but I'll be at it as soon as I can. Hope you liked this book, and will be there with me at the last one._

 _Until then, be well._


End file.
